


Golden Boy

by wildenessat221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Bad Parenting, Canon Compliant, Chris is too, Companion Piece, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Humor, Illness, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Viktor centric, just about, or more accurately, or the second half is, yakov is a cool dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: The rise of Viktor Nikiforov, the pedestals he's been put on, the people he's been and eventually, the person who makes it all worthwhile.It's a crazy ride, but he gets there.





	1. Pre-Yuri

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome... Quite a bit longer than the things I normally post, and a two-parter. I have a lot of love for Viktor, so this is me mapping out the life I think he could have had. In this world, unfortunately, homophobia exists but not quite to the extent that it does in ours. Mind the tags - nothing explicit or enormously triggering I don't think, but please let me know in the comments if you think I need to adjust or add anything. Happy reading friends! Comments much appreciated.

The world was his. There were cameras from more nations than he could count flashing in his face, and roses carpeting the floor. The screams of the adoring crowd were deafening.

He was Russia's hero.

He was about to be world famous.

He was on the cusp of being very accomplished indeed.

So why did he feel like running and never coming back?

He grinned hollowly at the flashes and tried not to grimace as he was engulfed by light and his chest constricted.

Across the ice, Yakov was stood militarily upright. He was by no means smiling but the edges of his mouth were slightly upturned and some of the frown lines usually settled into his forehead had smoothed out. 

That's good.

Someone's happy. 

Viktor swallowed thickly.

The crowd blurred into one, a technicolour of indistinguishable admiration. The beaming faces were like carbon copies of each other.

That's why the contrast was so stark. 

His father wasn't smiling.

Another rose appeared at his feet. Viktor watched as the petals fell away onto the ice until only thorns remained.

A camera flashed again. 

***

Viktor twisted a strand of long hair around his finger as he waited for his father, a comforting childhood habit he hadn't quite grown out of. 

His medal sat next to him on the bench, ribbon splayed beside it haphazardly.

The lights buzzed quietly, creating an eerie backdrop to the darkness that was probably intended to be relaxing.

Viktor wasn't feeling relaxed.

His heart was thundering, an angry storm whipping up in his chest.The icy wind of a Russian winter coursed through him and he shuddered.

He'll be here soon.

He wasn't smiling.

Viktor's father was a large man, with meaty hands and broad shoulders. He wasn't as young as he used to be, but he had a red face and and enormous frame that meant nobody was ever especially inclined to approach him. 

The journalists who tailed his positively angelic son, with his air of androgynous warmth and radiating smile always gave him as wide a berth as they could, so Ivan Nikiforov had a positively non existent public persona. 

Another quality to Viktor that the public lapped up... the mystery of a father who turned his face away from the crowd. 

Viktor always thought that if his fans were to spend half an hour with his father, they'd be rather disappointed. He wasn't a murderer or a drug lord or even a petty theft. Nor was   
he a shy, modest fatherly type with a picket fence. He was just a man who was indifferent to his son's achievements, and became a little more so when he'd had too much to drink.

Or it seemed, when his son conquered the world. 

***

The glass in the door shook dangerously when Ivan barrelled through it, stomach warm from three shots of Vodka. 

Viktor flinched and sat back against the bench, letting his eyes roll shut and clenching his fists.

Ivan's Russian rasp was cold, and contradictory to the words he spoke.

'You did well Viktor.'

'Thank you.'

The silence that followed was thick and rough, all sharp edges and sandpaper. 

'You won.'

'I did.'

'Look at me when I'm talking to you.'

Viktor sat up and opened his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.

'Sit up straight.'

He sat up straight. 

'You did well Viktor. You won. In front of all those people.'

'Yes Dad. I did.'

'I don't want you doing it again.'

Viktor sighed, and massaged his temples with two fingers. He wasn't surprised in the slightest. This conversation had been brewing for a long time, and apparently resounding success was just the tip of the iceberg. 

'Why's that?' 

'All those people, Viktor. All those opinions.'

'What about them?'

'They all see you. They see you with your... skimpy costumes. Sticking out your long legs. All that ridiculous hair.'

'Yes dad. They see my clothes and my legs and my hair. And the significance of that is..?'  
Ivan inhaled loudly, a horrible hulking snort. 

'You're a boy Viktor. They aren't boy things to do.'

Viktor laughed hollowly.

'"Boy things to do." What are they then? Football? Mud wrestling? Sex with girls? Because frankly Dad, none of those things appeal.'

Viktor smiled languidly. 

Then froze. He swallowed as what he'd just said registered.

Keep quiet until you're eighteen, Viktor. Then you can leave and be untouchable.

That was the plan. 

You've ruined it.

Ivan turned around and rested his forehead on the lockers behind.

A rough noise ripped from his throat. His voice when he turned around was lighter fluid. 

Steam. Lava.

'Of course. Of course. My boy. A boy who likes boys. Of course.' 

'Dad...'

A sick crash sounded as Ivan kicked a stack of lockers to the ground. Skates and miscellaneous objects spilled out across the tiled floor with a shrill whine. 

Viktor stood and pressed himself into the corner of the room. His limbs seized up as he crossed his arms across his chest. Ivan turned to face him with a lopsided smile. He had rather the air of a tiger with the blood of its recent prey smeared across its mouth. 

'I do worry about you Viktor. You make life so difficult for yourself by saying silly things. There are bad people in the world.'

Viktor let a stray tear roll down his cheek. He dropped his hair, and placed his fisted hands next to his thighs with as much defiance as he could muster. 

Into the silence of the room, he whispered, 'Are you one of them?'

Ivan's eyes narrowed dangerously.

'Let's go home Viktor.'

When Yakov came later to carry out his cursory sweep of the perimeter, he found the changing room destroyed and a gold medal on the bench. 

He frowned. 

***

Viktor took a long time putting his things away. 

He lingered by the wardrobe for an age before putting away his skates. He folded his tracksuit with more precision than either he nor any other seventeen year old on planet earth would have under usual circumstances. He even folded his fucking socks. 

'Viktor... Downstairs please,' said a terrifyingly steady voice from below. The even tone made Viktor shudder. It had an edge... And Viktor thought he was going to be the one to fall from it. 

He walked down the stairs so slowly they creaked. Every minute movement, every faltering inch reverberated throughout the house. 

It created a symphony remarkably like a funeral march. 

Ivan was sitting upright in his armchair by the front window. The curtains were open, and he was silhouetted by the pale glow of the street lamp outside. A half empty bottle of vodka rested in his hand. There was no glass... He clearly wasn't in the mood for either political correctness or restraint. 

Viktor remained by the doorframe, twisting his hair around his fingers. 

Ivan took a sip before speaking. 

'Viktor... You made a mistake.'

He closed his eyes heavily. 

A lengthy pause. 

Both expected the other to speak. 

The lack of synchronicity was painful.

Ivan sighed despairingly then begrudgingly spoke. 

'You made a mistake. You must know that. You know that, don't you?'

He opened only one eye, and Viktor was glad. He had inherited his father's eyes, and if he'd had to see himself in that moment, he may well have cried.

Boys don't cry, that'd already been established. 

'I didn't mean to say what I said...'

'I'm not talking about what you said, Viktor I'm talking about what you are,' he took another swig and waved a hand dramatically over his head, 'I could see it coming, I've been able to see it coming for a long time. All those stylists, the musicians, liberal journalists clambering all over you. The boys in their leotards, the girls in their suits... It's no wonder. It's no wonder. I mean, in this age of wrought capitalism, stick a stamp on something shiny and all the rich kids want it, and my god Viktor, are you a rich kid. Look at what I've done for you. Look at what I've given you. And you let yourself get sucked into this regime of male femininity and liberalism... What kind of repayment is that?'

Viktor blinked. 

He was expecting rage, flying books, fist fights. His father had never been one for corporal punishment as such, but he was used to being grabbed by the scruff of the neck, or kneed in the back when he slouched. He was certain that'd escalate.

But this... Incoherent babbling was  foreign, and he didn't know how to react. 

He blinked again. 

Ivan finished off the Vodka, and wiped a large hand across his mouth. 

'I'm willing to be civil, Viktor. I'm willing to forget what you said... This whole unnecessary debacle, on one condition...'

Viktor blinked once more, and this time it was like waking up. A dormant rage bubbled up inside him. He held up a hand, flicked his hair over one shoulder and stood before his father.  
   
'Dad, you're certainly not willing to forget, because I am your son, and I'm not going to change. If you forget that, you're doing yourself a disservice and not me. One day, I'm going to come home with a boy, who is decidedly not a girl and if you can't accept that then...'

Ivan sighed.

'Viktor you're being silly...'

'Be quiet. My lover will be one of my choosing and one who I, subject to the term 'lover,' love. I'm sorry but I'm not going to end up like you.'

'Careful, Viktor.'

'I'm not entering into a loveless marriage for the sole purpose of reproduction with a woman I don't love. I'm not casting her aside when the child she produces doesn't meet up to expectations...'

'Careful Viktor.'

'I'm not subjecting that child to a cold childhood supplemented by worthless, worthless money and a negative reinforcement programme, then getting drunk off my ass when he shows a little self expression-'

'I SAID, BE CAREFUL VIKTOR.'

Viktor blinked again, and it was like waking up again. He realised he was terrified. A fog settled over him. 

His father stood up jerkily. Viktor backed against the wall. 

'You didn't even listen to my condition,' his voice was cold. Emotionless. Merciless, 'You make an effort to remove yourself from that... Lifestyle.'

He took a step towards Viktor, who had quite literally backed himself into a corner. 

'That means: no more skimpy costumes. No more twirling around like a fool.'

One more step. 

'And less.'

He grabbed Viktor's ponytail.

'Of this.'

He yanked it.

'Mess.'

Viktor was led forcefully towards the door, his head at an uncomfortable angle and some of the fog began to clear.

Oh no. 

God no. 

Please no. 

'Dad...' he whispered sharply. 

They rounded the corner and his neck twisted painfully. Then, they were going up the stairs. 

One step.

'Dad, no...' 

A little louder.

'Dad no...'

Louder still. 

He tripped on the final step, and tumbled onto the landing. Ivan pulled him up sharply, and he yelped in pain. The volume sparked something in him, which remained.

'DAD, FUCK NO!'

'Language, Viktor,' Ivan muttered, his first reaction to Viktor's protests. 

He shoved his son into the bathroom, down onto the closed lid of the toilet seat and pulled his head over the sink. 

At this point, Viktor became hysterical, screaming empty syllables and profanities in a variety of languages, firing haphazard fists at whatever part of his father's body was nearest. They were all limp, and barely registered with Ivan.

He was far too busy reaching under the sink for the scissors used to cut gauze in the first aid kit. 

'You'll be on your way to normal soon, son,' Ivan whispered cooly. 

Viktor let out a gut wrenching scream as Ivan sliced through his ponytail. 

His trademark. 

His comfort blanket. 

A sizeable chunk of his identity. 

Gone. 

It was thick and the scissors were old, so it took some sawing. Viktor's throat was raw by the time the last few wisps had floated to the floor. The second Ivan put the scissors down, he fell silent.

'Now that was a bit silly, wasn't it Viktor?'

Viktor's head was too heavy to lift up, so he left it in the sink. Ivan dropped the severed ponytail onto the worktop beside it. 

'We'll talk in the morning.'

He staggered out of the room, and collapsed fully clothed on top of his bed sheets without an ounce of remorse. 

They didn't talk in the morning, because after Viktor had sat in the bathroom for many, many chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall, he had grabbed his skates and a coat from the bedroom, climbed out of the window, snuck into the ice rink, curled up on one of the benches and not slept. 

In another world, a News Anchor was congratulating Viktor Nikiforov on his first gold medal at a Grand Prix final. 

Russia's new golden boy, she said. 

***  

Viktor was already on the ice by the time Yakov arrived, a feat which hadn't happened for a long, long time. 

As Viktor had improved, he had gradually mastered the art of fashionable lateness, a quality that Yakov found equal parts annoying and endearing. 

He always stayed late though... The boy was dedicated. 

Yakov leaned over the ice to watch Viktor's feet as he glided, and then let his eyes slide up his body. 

His heart skipped a beat when he reached his head. 

He was sporting a horrific bowl cut, with jagged edges and stray strands that hung limply over the tops of his ears. His waterfall of striking platinum hair was gone. The sight scared Yakov a little. 

He wasn't quite sure why. 

Viktor was allowed a haircut. He was on top of the world, he could do what he wanted. He could boycott clothes for body paint for all the world cared. A change of image following a victory... Not unheard of. 

But Viktor didn't look like he'd changed his image, he looked like a novice gardener had attacked him with a pair of hedge clippers. 

Looking beyond the hair, Yakov rather thought his expression matched that hypothesis.   
His eyes were red, with grey bags hanging down below them. His mouth was down turned and his jaw clenched. His cheeks were pale and he looked altogether... Hollow. 

This wasn't quite how he'd expected to greet his prodigy after having won gold. Although, finding his medal in the rubble strewn changing room had sparked a fear in him, fuelled by his absence at the banquet. 

But frankly, the previous night, he had been too proud to care. 

'Viktor!'

Viktor skidded to a halt abruptly, and looked around in disorientation. His eyes were vacant. 

Yakov waited while he got his bearings, and watched him with scrutiny as he skated towards him. His long legs were shaky and uncertain, and Yakov was reminded of the shy little boy who had stumbled onto the ice all those years ago. 

'Morning, Yakov,' he said croakily. The words were like spikes dragging out of his throat. It was raw, and unused since the previous night. 

'You did an incredible job last night Viktor. Stardom is yours.'

'Thank you.'

Yakov drummed his fingers on the barrier uncomfortably. Viktor stood upright and stoic, unmoving. 

'...you weren't at the banquet last night.'

'No.'

'You... Went for a haircut instead..?'

Viktor's hand fluttered up to his hair, and he tugged on a stray longer strand.   
'I suppose you could say I did.'

His eyes misted with tears. Yakov's stomach clenched. 

'...would you like another one?'

'...yes please,' he whispered brokenly. 

Yakov was confused and horrified, but coughed loudly and composed himself, standing upright and taking a step away from Viktor. 

'I think you can be allowed a half day today, golden boy.'

Viktor laughed hollowly. 

'Thank you. A half day of twirling like a fool. Thank you.'

Yakov frowned. 

They spent the morning in Yakov's niece's salon, getting Viktor's hair levelled into a short cut with a slightly overhanging fringe. 

While Viktor glowered in the chair, Yakov slipped the medal into his coat pocket. He was sure Viktor noticed, as his eyes followed the movement but he didn't react. 

Yakov didn't like that one bit. 

***

Viktor slept in the ice rink for two weeks before anyone found out. The night cleaner was startled at best to find a national treasure curled up on one of the industrial metal benches when she was called in to prepare for a birthday party. 

His nose was pressed into the fur of a stray poodle who had been pawing at the door for warmth. Viktor had let him in for the first time on his third night, and his visits had been much appreciated. He even gave him a name.

He thought he looked like a Macca. Or Maccachin, to give him his Sunday name. It was thanks to him that Viktor was sleeping again. Not much, but he found himself drifting off to the soft symphony of his breathing every now and again. 

It was during one of those much appreciated naps that the cleaner had awoken him with a quick, shrill scream.

For a moment, he was back in the bathroom with his father, lashing out and screaming himself hoarse. Macca jumped as he jolted awake with a start, and whined with dissatisfaction. 

His heart was was beating as though an electric current was surging through it. The poor cleaner registered the expression of distress, then who it belonged to. Her eyes widened, and she rather ridiculously found herself bowing. 

'Mr Nikiforov... please do forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you, I...'

'It's me... who should be... apologising,' Viktor gritted out between heavy breaths. Then for good measure, 'I do apologise.' 

The cleaner shuffled from one foot to the other awkwardly, and said bewilderedly, 'I like your haircut,' because what else do you say when you encounter a gold medalist looking like a vagrant on a bench with a stray dog in the middle of the night?

'Thank you,' Viktor said, because how else do you reply?

The cleaner twisted her hands uncomfortably.

'...late night practice?'

Viktor considered this for a while.

'I'll go for... a yes.'

'Right. Does anyone know you're here?'

'I'll go for a no.'

Macca whined, and the stoic face he had been wearing melted. 

A few tears fell down his cheeks, and the cleaner took a step back. It was at this point that she considered pinching herself, then decided that even in a dream, Viktor Nikiforov shouldn't be crying alone in an ice rink.

'Is there anyone you can call, Mr Nikiforov?'

Viktor gulped. He went through the faces of those he knew and loved. It was a short list, but also an eye opening one.

He wasn't quite alone.

'Yes I suppose there is.'

Viktor had left his phone in his father's house, so he made a very expensive phone call to Switzerland from a phone box at the end of the street, while a very confused cleaner patted the matted fur of a disheveled poodle.

She decided she wasn't going to call the press, or the psychiatric unit for that matter.  
Viktor Nikiforov was really there, and he was really in pain, and the paparazzi were cruel. 

She didn't get much cleaning done that night. 

***

Chris had announced to his coach that he wanted to train under Yakov Feltsman in Russia, and she had said, 'No.'

She had then promptly returned to cleaning her skates. 

Chris had smiled and done the same. 

It wasn't until around midnight that night that she remembered that Christophe Giacometti was the most spoilt fourteen year old in Europe, with doting aristocratic parents who would buy him the world, and take him anywhere. 

Chris had the decency to text her when he landed in St Petersburg. 

//'It's been fun.'//

That was nice of him. 

His parents wandered off to the loo moments after landing, so Chris proceeded on his own. 

Viktor was waiting for him at the gate, with a painted on smile and open arms. 

Chris only accepted the latter. 

'Wipe that smile off your face, winner boy. You're allowed to hurt around me,' he mumbled into Viktor's shoulder. 

Viktor went to pull away, then changed his mind, tightening his grip for a moment.

'Not in public I'm not.'

Chris considered this for a moment. 

'No, I suppose not.' 

***

'My parents won't mind. It's a big house, you could be pretty much self sufficient.'

'How do you know it's a big house, you came straight here?'

'I know my parents.'

Viktor chuckled.

They were lying on the ice, exposed arms growing red and rough with goose bumps. 

'It's okay Chris. I'm fine.'

'You didn't sound fine, Viktor.'

'It was a rough night.'

'... and how frequent are they? Rough nights?'

'More so than they used to be.'

Distant footsteps echoed in the hallway and somewhere, a pipe dripped. Viktor breathed deeply. The background voice was calming, as was a warm body next to him. 

'You didn't need to come, Chris.'

He made a dismissive noise.

'I was getting itchy feet anyway. How the hell do people stay put?' 

'You're fourteen, the pull of domesticity may be on the horizon. You never know.'

'So wise, old man.'

'I wouldn't mind a bit of stability.'

The statement made Chris uncomfortable, but Viktor didn't seem to realise what he had said.

'Where are you staying? You never said.'

'Somewhere.'

'Where's that?'

'Somewhere.'

'...okay.'

Viktor sat up, and ran a hand through his hair. He was frowning, and his face melted into something absent minded.

'Viktor... you haven't hurt in front of me yet. You still can.'

Viktor sighed. He planted his head in his hands.

'I'm alright Chris.'

'Just remember my offer stands. Okay?'

Viktor hummed. 

'Thank you.'

Yakov appeared at the barrier, and clapped his large hands, the sound echoing throughout the building.

'Time to be off, boys. On time tomorrow, please. Good first day, Christophe. Keep it up.'

Yakov liked Chris. He'd met him at the Junior World Championships and been impressed by his connection with the music and lyrical style. Mature beyond his age, he'd thought. This was part of the reason he'd agreed to coach him. 

(The rest of the reason was that Viktor had asked him to, and though he'd admit it only at gunpoint or drunk, he loved him and was worried about him.)

Viktor and Chris sat side by side on the bench unlacing their skates. 

Chris left first, with Viktor trailing behind him.

'Wait, Viktor,' Yakov caught his elbow and held him back.

Chris turned around and smiled sheepishly, before rounding the corner with a small parting wave.

Viktor frowned, but turned to Yakov with an easy smile. 

'Come with me for a moment. I want to show you something.'

He didn't ask if his father would mind, and Viktor narrowed his eyes.

'Okay...' he said slowly. Yakov was already turning away. 

Viktor blinked, and it didn't occur to him to follow.

Yakov huffed and turned around.

'Come along, Viktor.'

He plodded along after Yakov, and climbed into his car silently. He'd been to Yakov's house before, for celebratory dinners and such, so recognised the route and felt a warm familiarity in his chest. 

Yakov's eyes were trained on the road, and his old car rattled a little as the roads grew rougher. 

Viktor didn't move when the car pulled up in the drive after around half an hour, so Yakov mooched around to the passenger door and beckoned for him to follow.   
He dragged his feet vacantly up the path. 

The heaving door creaked on its hinges when Yakov opened it and stepped into the hall, stepping aside to let Viktor in. He wiped his feet gingerly as Yakov hooked his scarf over the bannister. 

'What was it you wanted to show me?' 

Yakov met Viktor eyes and held his gaze for a moment, then climbed halfway up the stairs.   
'I've had the spare bedroom redecorated.'

'Oh... that's nice.'

'Hmm. Come and see.'

'...okay.'

He followed Yakov up the stairs and across the landing. The room was at the end of the hall, just beyond a small bathroom.

It was small and cosy, with large wardrobes running along one wall and a single bed in the corner under a wide window. The walls were neutral and clean, and a writing desk was pushed to the foot of the bed with an industrial office chair.

It was bare and functional and simply... pleasant. 

'It's very nice, Yakov. You have an eye for design.'

'I thought so. Let's get you home, then.'

'That's... all?'

'Yes.'

'You drove me here to show me your guest bedroom?'

'Problem?'

'No, not at all,' Viktor got the impression that any other answer would be unsatisfactory. 

'Come on then.'

They went back downstairs, Viktor a little dazed, and Yakov grabbed his keys and headed out of the door. 

He hadn't taken his scarf.

An incredibly confused Viktor settled back into the leather of the seat and listened as Yakov started the car. 

Once.

Then twice.

Three times.

'Well would you look at that.'

Viktor opened his eyes.

'My car won't start. How strange.'

'That's... odd.'

'Isn't it. I suppose you'll have to stay here tonight.'

'Oh... I could walk.'

'I doubt it.'

'...okay.'

And that was that. 

Viktor was warm in the guest room of Yakov's house that night, and the soft bed did wonders for his back. 

But he didn't sleep well, because all he could think about was Macca shivering and whimpering in the cold.

Yakov on the other hand, slept easier than he had for weeks.

He sent his new student a text in the morning, that simply said, 'Thank you.'

Chris didn't reply, and the two never discussed it again.

***

'How do you feel about dogs, Chris?'

'Dogs? They're... Fluffy. Mostly affectionate. Sometimes not. Known to bite if you get on their wick. Bit like you, I suppose.'

'So you like them?'

'I seem to like you.'

Viktor drummed his fingers on the table. 

'Never asked mummy and daddy for a puppy though?'

'No. Because then I'd get one, and it'd just be another thing. Another vessel to pump money into. I think that'd be cruel.'

'So... You'd prefer a free dog?'

Chris put down his fork and gave Viktor a funny look. 

'Yes Viktor, I suppose I would. Hypothetically. Why does it feel like I'm digging myself into a hole here?'

'You're paranoid.'

Viktor picked up his pizza slice and chewed away quietly. He thoughtfully pulled a piece of burnt crust out of his mouth and deposited it on the plate.  

He made a mental note to complain to Yakov about the rink's pizza making abilities. He replaced it with a mental note to absolutely not do that because then Yakov would find out that he was breaking his diet and would feel the wrath of his optimum volume, which had been known to shatter wine glasses.

'Come on Viktor, why are you trying to get me to pick up stray dogs? Worried about my soul? Because I'm pretty sure I'm irredeemable.'

Viktor smiled innocently.

'Not just any stray... Maccachin.'

Chris put his head in his hands, and let out a long suffering sigh. 

'Who the fuck is... You know what, do I want to finish that, or will it end with me putting you down as certifiably insane?'

'Hopefully it'll end with you having a new pet.'

Viktor almost laughed at Chris' incredulous expression. He jabbed him in the knee. 

'Isn't that nice?'

Chris shook his head, and shoved a forkful of potato into his mouth, before half-heatedly gesturing for Viktor to continue. 

'Maccachin's a dog who hangs around near here. He's big and fluffy and loving and he shouldn't be out in the cold. He's got big brown eyes and he's very warm and... Am I selling him?'

'Sounds very... Canine. How did you meet him?'

Viktor winced a little. He spoke slowly and cautiously. 

'He... Tries to get in here at night. After everybody's gone home. Because he's cold.'

Chris froze.

'How do you know that, Viktor?'

Chris leaned forward expectantly and raised an eyebrow at Viktor.

Viktor put his pizza down and didn't reply. He hung his head, and the longer bit of hair fell over his eyes. Realisation dawned on Chris, and he grabbed his chin and pulled it upwards.  
'Viktor, were you sleeping here?'

There was a long pause. Then, 'Not for long.'

Chris threw his hands up. 

'I thought you were at a hotel or something, rich boy! Jesus Christ, Viktor. You were here  
for long enough to befriend a fucking dog. Hurt in front of me, that's what I said you were to do.'

'I wasn't hurting for long once you got here. You wouldn't have seen anything.'

'God, Viktor.'

They didn't speak for quite a while. Or eat. Or move. They just sat in the busting cafe and breathed, thinking. 

Chris broke the silence. 

'Are you going to tell me what fell apart?'

Viktor twisted his hands around each other.

'Maybe.'

'Now?'

'No.'

Chris sighed heavily, and ran a hand through his hair. Letting his eyes fall shut, he muttered, 'How can I meet this fucking dog?' 

Viktor smiled, and if it was watery, Chris didn't say so. 

***

It was only a matter of time before Ivan tried to make contact, and he wasn't stupid. The first place he called was the ice rink. 

Viktor was there, of course, and alone with Yakov. It was Chris' first day at his new school, much to his disdain. 

('I don't get it, I'm never going to be destitute am I? Even if my parents' money runs out or I break my back and can't skate anymore, I've got a lovely ass. There are always going to be options.'

'Tone that brain muscle, Christophe. Knowledge opens doors.'

'You'd know would you, dropout?'

'...Touché.')

When the receptionist poked her head around the door and called for Viktor, he laughed. He figured it was a distress call from Chris and that he'd have to give a big brotherly-esque pep talk about perseverance and the value of education. He also figured that he'd have to change tact fairly quickly and agree to teach him how to land a triple salchow. 

He turned to Yakov for guidance, and he waved a hand dismissively and took a swig of bottled water. 

'Your free leg was getting sloppy anyway. We'll regroup in half an hour.'

Viktor nodded and began to leave the ice. 

He abandoned his skates at the edge of the rink, and jogged barefoot to the lobby where the phone call was being held.

The receptionist gave him a small smile.

'He wouldn't give a name. Said you'd know who he is.'

Viktor smiled back, thinking it was rather a Chris quirk to enjoy the air of mystery. 

He took the phone from her, and she slipped into the back office. 

'Hello?'

'Viktor.'

Viktor tightened his grip on the phone and swallowed hard. But he didn't let his composure drop; wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

'Good afternoon, Dad.'

There was a silence on the other end. 

Viktor waited. 

'Did you want something.'

There was a rustling then, another pause.

'You know what I want Viktor. You've had enough time to cool off now.'

'I've had enough time to cool off? Me?'

'Those silly hysterics about your hair. It's just hair, Viktor.'

('Its not just the hair, Dad.' Viktor wanted to say. 'It's the muttered comments at the dinner table, the glances out of the corner of your eye, the pushing, the shoving, the dominance, the disapproval, the empty house, the smell of vodka, the fact that Yakov's house felt warmer after one night than his had in years.')

'So you want me back do you?'

'Of course I do, Viktor?'

'Why?' He asked sharply.

'Why?'

'Yes. Why? What can I give you if not a son you love.'

'I don't not love you Viktor.'

'Really?' Viktor asked flatly.

'I'm not answering that.'

'Why on Earth not?' Viktor hissed, in a slightly raised tone.

'Because clearly I just want the best for you.'

'The best for me? Dad, I let slip a sizeable fact about myself, and you told me in no uncertain terms that you cannot accept it.'

'I'm trying to protect you.'

'Yeah yeah, bad people in the world.'

'Yes Viktor,' Ivan huffed loudly, 'Bad people.'

Viktor gritted his teeth and put his head in his hands. 

'People. Like. You.' He spat.

'Don't be silly-'

'STOP SAYING THAT. I'm not a child.'

'You most certainly are... when you're living under my roof-'

'I'm not living under your roof. For goodness sake Dad, what did you think I was doing? Did you even notice I'd gone?'

'Of course I noticed. But all your things are here. You're coming back, of course you are!'

'Am I?' Viktor asked coldly. 

Ivan paused uncomfortably.

'Son...'

'I'll come back... if you apologise. That's all I ask.'

'Apologise for what? For trying to stop you from getting hurt?' 

(For pushing my head into the sink and slicing away a piece of my identity. For making the night that should have been the best of my life empty and hollow.)

'Yes, I suppose so.'

A silence. 

It dragged on. 

And on. 

Yakov rounded the corner, and paused on seeing Viktor's face. It was set into a perfect picture of grim resignation.

'Okay then. I'll collect my things in the morning.'

'Vik...'

He hung up the phone. 

Yakov approached him slowly. He was pretty certain he knew what that conversation inferred. He was also unflinching in his decision.

'It is a nice room, isn't it Viktor.'

'It's lovely.'

Viktor looked down at his shoes.

'I'll pay rent,' he said sheepishly. 

Yakov snorted. 

'Like hell you will.'

Then jerkily, and against his better judgement, he took Viktor's shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze. 

'I'll help you move your things.'

'Thank you.'

The next morning, Yakov and Viktor moved piles of clothes and bundles of medals out of a silent and empty house. 

They left behind Ivan's old football memorabilia and sporting trophies that'd made their way into his room over the years... relics of his hope for a 'manly' son. 

In the car on the way back, Viktor felt like he could breathe again. Especially when Yakov hummed along to the radio and casually mentioned going for coffee on the way 'home.'

 

***

Viktor enjoyed living with Yakov.

It was by no means a warm and cuddly relationship, and they certainly kept themselves to themselves. They rarely sat down to watch a television programme together, and Yakov occupied the living room late at night while Viktor retired to his bedroom. 

The house was often quiet... Both were quite accustomed to solitude, so conversations were sparse, but it wasn't the icy quiet of Ivan's house, but a comfortable, cotton wool quiet. 

Viktor was a fairly frequent visitor to Chris' house, and Yakov maintained a close relationship with his ex wife Lilia, so it was also not a rarity for the house to be empty. The heating, however, was always left on. 

They travelled to the ice together in the morning, and came back together at night. They hummed along softly to the radio together, and if they found themselves at home and hungry at the same time, they ate meals together. Hearty servings of solyanka soup and bowls of sweet borsch were passed over the small dinner table, and at times like this, conversation flowed. 

Yakov told Viktor about how Lilia's eyes used to light up when she saw him, and how warm she was in the evenings, and how he was glad they fell apart because he was afraid that she'd begin to dull in his eyes if he held onto her for too long, and he didn't want that. 

Viktor didn't speak about anything but the present moment. He didn't want to remember that everything wasn't always so easy. Instead of talking about refilling his father's wine glass again and again until his hand shook out of fear of his alcohol consumption, or how silences could always be filled by a snide comment weeding directly into Viktor's open wounds of insecurities, he talked about how delicious the borsch was. How warm the fire was. How peaceful the air was. 

They'd climb the stairs together then part ways on the landing. Viktor sometimes stopped to listen, and marvelled at the fact that despite his sizeable frame, Yakov's footsteps were so much lighter than his father's. 

Nights were still difficult, but Viktor wouldn't trade his new days for anything he'd had so far. 

***

Because Yakov wouldn't let him pay rent, Viktor could think of only one way to repay him.   
He had to win. 

He pushed his body to breaking point day after day on the ice. His step sequences grew in intricacy and his music became faster and more relentless. He was carving out his soul into the ice each time he skated, and he was only growing in momentum. Triples became a rarity in Viktor's practices, and horribly exhaustive quads became packed into his schedule like sardines. 

Yakov's job for Viktor at the rink became less to be his coach and more his modulator, checking Viktor's breathing discreetly when he finished a routine and reminding him that it was okay to stop sometimes. He pumped some of his more instructive coaching into Chris who lapped it up, watching Viktor from across the ice with a fire in his belly screaming, 'I want to compete with that.'

Viktor's feet became a mess, and Yakov quietly filled the freezer with ice packs, because he remembered what it was like to be young, and and athlete, and told what to do, and remembered that it felt like ceaseless bounds and chains which invariably led to rebellion. Viktor was already self destructive without necessarily realising it, which meant that a rebellious Viktor was likely to be an intentional self destructive force. 

He certainly didn't want that. 

The first time Yakov saw Viktor fall scared him more than he'd like to admit. He'd known Viktor since before he was tall enough to reach the top of the front desk, and by the time he could, he'd stopped falling on the ice. 

But a day of spinning and more spinning, and a few jumps that were sure to have shredded his feet to ribbons took their toll one day in late November, around five months after Viktor's spat with his father. (Viktor didn't say, but it was in fact exactly five months after the night when everything fell apart, and after falling asleep early, Viktor had awoken fairly soon drenched in sweat. He had run a hand through his short hair and begun to silently sob. It had been a sleepless night, needless to say.)

Yakov watched as he seemed to freeze mid jump and simply crumple. His long limbs fell into one another, and his midriff folded in two as his feet seemed to just disappear from under him. He hit the ice. Hard. And didn't get up. 

He seemed to be encased in foam, just about aware but not quite enough, and there was white noise blaring in his ears. His body felt heavy, but that didn't particularly bother him at the time, as it simply didn't cross his mind to try to get up. Irrationally, in that moment, he resigned himself to lying on the ice forever. 

'...ktor. Viktor!'

He realised after longer than he should have that Yakov was shouting his name. He was being loud, very loud, even by his standards, but it was like he was underwater, swimming just below the surface. His eyes fluttered shut. 

Yakov's heart skipped a beat when he saw this, and he took it upon himself to be first on the scene, shouting to one of the attendants to call the medic. 

As he knelt beside Viktor's limp form, he was mortified to see that his knees were shaking.   
Of course, he'd seen skaters fall before. 

Seen blood and broken bones. 

Never Viktor. 

He slid his scarf off and slipped it under Viktor's head, which elicited a slight moan and a couple of twitching eyelids. 

Yakov lightly patted his cheek. 

'Come on Viktor,' Yakov said in a low tone, 'I let you into my house, don't scare me like this.'  
Viktor had the decency to groan and shift. 

Yakov shuffled helplessly to the side when the medics arrived and manhandled Viktor onto a stretcher. 

He was taken to A and E, where he awoke a little dazed a few hours later, with Yakov absolutely not holding his hand. 

He was diagnosed with mild pneumonia and severe exhaustion, the first of which he could hardly be blamed for and the second of which both Yakov and Chris severely berated him for. 

They decided to keep him in overnight; it was a slow shift and better to be safe than sorry. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that half the work force worshipped him like a god, which he found rather hilarious. 

Once the lights had gone out, and he was doing a rather good job of feigning sleep, he heard one of the nurses say that his father had been called as next of kin and not arrived.   
Viktor felt a stab of something between sadness, relief, bitterness and pride. He later chalked it up to the mild painkillers he'd been administered. 

Yakov doted on him for the next few days, which Viktor didn't really understand.   
It had been mostly his fault after all, and he told Yakov such when he set down a fifth mug of tea at his bedside, then promptly burst into tears. 

Yakov, in a fatherly gesture unfamiliar to Viktor, put an arm around his shoulder, as Viktor sobbed out apologies. 

'Not your fault Viktor. Not your fault.'

After Viktor had calmed down, and Yakov slipped back into the role of "distant but quietly affectionate," he had said, 'Still not your fault, but lay off the quads for a while, yes?'  
Viktor had laughed wetly and nodded.

His first week back on the ice was dedicated to teaching Chris to land a triple salchow.   
He told him he made an excellent coach, but Viktor promptly forgot all about it. 

***  
The question first arose in mid December, about a week before Viktor's birthday. His hair was tickling the base of his neck, and falling in front of his eyes. It was starting to part in the middle, and covering the tops of his ears.

Was he going to cut it, or grow it out?

Admittedly, it was far easier to manage shorter, and mornings were calmer without having to set aside an hour or so to wash and dry it. He rather liked how it looked, and was tentatively excited to make his competition debut with his new image. 

He missed being able to twist it around his fingers when he felt anxious, and he still wasn't used to the icy chills that now worked their way down his neck. 

But most of all, he didn't want his father to think he was was winning. 

Perhaps he'd see it as a victory if Viktor kept his 'masculine' look. He was increasingly in the public eye, so he could hardly escape his father's gaze. 

Was it caving in if he kept to Ivan's forceful wishes?

Was he throwing away a part of his identity that he'd so fiercely defended?

After a lot of thought, Viktor came to the decision that he'd like boys whatever he did with his hair, and booked a haircut for the next day. 

He let the paparazzi photograph him wearing a flower crown at the shopping centre too.

Just for good measure.

***

Viktor's eighteenth birthday was a quiet affair. 

Yakov, a cynical atheist who felt that God abandoned him in early childhood when his cat ran away didn't celebrate Christmas, so there was no tinsel or twinkling lights in the house.   
Chris' family however, were in the extravagant Christmas spirit, and according to a text that Viktor received, were spectacularly drunk by midday. He made a flying visit to Yakov's doorstep mid afternoon to drop off a gift bag before promptly heading back to apparently, 'Listen to mum slur out crappy Brit-Pop from a decade ago.'

Viktor's mother texted him from Paris, saying she'd sent flowers, and that they should arrive within the week. Instead of telling her that they'd be going to wrong address, Viktor replied with a thank you that he knew would be deleted without being read.

He took his present from Chris into the living room, and unwrapped it silently while Yakov watched from the dining table. 

Yakov snorted when he saw the Gucci watch that probably cost considerably more than his house, and Viktor laughed loudly. 

'Thanks, Chris. You wealthy bastard,' Viktor smiled, raising his glass of orange juice to the sky in a toast. 

Yakov chuckled, then muttered, 'I'd say no swearing, but I'm not sure how else it could have been effectively phrased.'

Viktor hummed in agreement. 

'Glad you agree.' 

He stretched his long legs out across the rug and raised his arms above his head.  
He closed his eyes, and listed as the chair Yakov had been occupying creaked and he disappeared into the hall. He heard rustling coming from the kitchen, and furrowed his brow. When he heard the door creak, he opened his eyes. 

Yakov was holding a red bag, weighed down by something heavy and angular. It rattled as he handed it over with a grunt, looking at his feet sheepishly. His face was developing a reddish tint, but Viktor used what little good sense he had to not mention it.

'...thank you Yakov. You really didn't have to.'

Yakov waved a hand and grunted again.

'Enough of pleasantries, just open it.'

Viktor took the box out of the bag carefully, and placed it on the cushion beside him. His breath caught in his throat when he lifted the lid.

It was a pair of skates, exquisitely polished and adorned with ivory laces. The leather was thick, expensive looking and bright gold. Yakov shuffled his feet awkwardly and met Viktor's wide eyes.

'Thought it was only fair. Now that you've got the medal to match it.'

The saliva in Viktor's throat was thick. He swallowed, his eyes dangerously close to misting over.

'I... thank you. Thank you so, so much.' 

Yakov didn't reply, just sat down in the opposite chair. Viktor swallowed again.

'For everything.'

Yakov's mouth quirked up in one corner.

'Don't mention it.'

Later that night, long after the sun had set, the phone rang. But as soon as Viktor picked it up, the person on the other end hung up. He thought very little of it, and went to bed with a warm feeling inside. 

Ivan Nikiforov was still staring at his phone a few hours and many bottles of burning alcohol later, and wondered for the first time if it truly was he, and not his son who was a coward. 

***

Viktor was establishing quite a fan base, which he found rather hilarious. 

Hoards of screaming teenagers followed him from competition to competition, waving their hands in front of their faces and swooning. 

His signature evolved from a scribbled and functional 'V.Nikiforov,' to an elaborate mass of swirls and flicks, as he signed napkins and phone cases, and even body parts. He refused to sign anything that is conventionally covered in polite society, much to the relief of few (Yakov included) and the dismay of many. 

The first time the editor of a teen magazine approached him, he laughed so hard he thought he might break a rib. The only publicity he'd had before that was a solitary photograph of him at fifteen, with a dog. But the man standing opposite him, with his journalist's notebook and professionally knotted tie wasn't laughing. He was proposing to pay Viktor a very large sum of money to have his face plastered across a two page spread. 

'It's what the people want, Mr Nikiforov. And what the people want keeps bread on my table, so I'd be incredibly grateful.'

In the end, Viktor took the man's phone number, and left without promising anything.   
He told Chris about it during their lunch break at the rink one Saturday. His teeth were clamped around a piece of lettuce (approved for his diet; he had to stick to it sometimes, if only to keep Yakov on his toes) and he had salad cream dripping down his chin. He was unashamedly an utter mess, and it was the ultimate irony. Chris reacted in the same way Viktor had.

'"What the people want," he said? Where do they find these people?' Chris huffed after catching his breath following an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 

Viktor wiped the cream of his face with the back of his hand, which only succeeded in smothering it further. 

'Universities. Think tanks. Obviously where the smartest people hang around.'

Chris snorted. 

'Hmm. Or the optician. Where the visually challenged hang around.'

Viktor jabbed him in the side. 

Chris ripped a piece of bread off his sandwich. 

'Are you going to do it then?' 

'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'I'm not a model, Chris.'

'Not yet you're not,' Chris stood up and fanned his arms out dramatically, 'Open up a world of possibilities for yourself, my young friend.'

'I'm older than you.'

'You're hardly geriatric.'

Viktor shrugged, and gulped down some water. 

'I could give you some...' Chris stuck one hip out and planted a hand on it in a horribly exaggerated "sexy" pose, that resembled more of a rudimentary teapot that was dropped in the kiln, '...pointers.'

Viktor raised an eyebrow.

'Think I'll be okay.'

'That's a yes then?'

'I'll ask Yakov.'

'Is that a good idea?' Chris asked, face set into an exaggeratedly unsure expression. 

'Possibly not...' Viktor's eyes sparkled, 'But it'll be funny.'

Yakov's face when Viktor explained the situation was a picture of confusion and incredulousness. 

'You? Why would anyone want you on their wall?' 

Viktor barked out a laugh. 

'You wound me Yakov. Clearly I have supreme beauty.'

Yakov shook his head sufferingly. 

'Do you want to be on someone's wall?'

'I've... Never really given it much thought.'

'Think now.'

Viktor thought about it. 

He thought about his flat eyes staring at people as they bustled around in their bedrooms.   
Thought about people telling poster-him their insecurities and worries, and thought about them feeling lighter once they had. 

Thought about people finding his picture under their beds in years to come, and being reminded of a whole chapter of their life they'd forgotten. 

But most of all, he thought about his father seeing his face in a glossy magazine and realising what exactly he'd abandoned. 

He sighed.

'Would it... Diminish my integrity in your eyes if I did this?'

'Viktor, I know you too well for you to have integrity in my eyes anyway.'

Viktor considered this.

'I think... I'm going to take that as a good thing. And I think I'm going to do it.'

Yakov put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

'Don't let me stop you. Just make sure it doesn't eat into training time.'

Four weeks later, Viktor's hair was being blown by what looked like a pimped-up leaf blower, and he was wearing more body glitter than he would have thought possible.   
('The sparkles show up less on camera, I promise. They just give you a bit of a glow.'  
'I wasn't worried.')

The experience was surreal, but not unenjoyable. 

Another editor grabbed him on the way out.

Fairly soon, he was accustomed to the leaf blowers and body glitter, and his face was on bedroom walls all the way from Russia to Japan.

***

Viktor spent many months euphoric. 

He was Russia's angel, loved by hormonal teenagers and maternally inclined grandmothers alike. He he had a warm bed to go home to, and a close (if small and unconventional) family at his back. He could remember the feeling of gold metal against his chest without the memory feeling tainted and he no longer despaired at the feeling of wind against his neck. 

In his golden skates, he felt weightless. 

He glided along the ice like a swan, and his jumps took him above the clouds. His step sequences flowed like exquisite silk, and he felt as though he could break land speed records with his spins. 

The worry that Yakov carried about him never disappeared, but it certainly diminished in mass. Chris too found himself watching Viktor out of the corner of his eye less, much to his relief. 

For a while Viktor felt infallible. 

It was an awful shock when he realised he wasn't. 

He went to bed at around his usual time one night, leaving Yakov to potter doing whatever it was he did downstairs. 

It had been a long day of training, as they usually were, and he drifted off to sleep without any trouble. 

Then, he was standing in his old kitchen, with his father's foot digging into his back and a rough voice telling him to 'Stand up straight, for god's sake.'

The image crackled and he was standing nervously at the door of the pub, arms bare as he waited. His father staggered past him, grabbed the scruff of his neck and dragged him out into the snow. Viktor's coat was left inside the building, but he didn't dare say, and shivered all the way back to his front door. 

Another flickering image and he was standing before his father, being told how little promise he had, and how he might as well give up on that skating lark; there's no money in it and nobody actually makes it big. 

Then, his head was in the sink and he was screaming himself hoarse. He felt his father's grip tighten on his hair, then felt the first couple of wisps tickle his cheek as they fell to the floor-

He awoke with a start, as though an electric current were being passed through his body. The room was stiflingly dark, and for a moment he was disorientated, until his memory caught up with him and he remembered which life he was living now. He was shaking violently and fumbled with the light switch. 

The second the room was illuminated, a glint passed over his gold medal, which was suspended proudly on the opposite wall. 

It was mocking him. 

He made a choking noise. 

And then the tears were flowing, spilling onto the bed sheets. He furiously scrubbed at his eyes, but it was useless. He just kept seeing his father's cold, detached eyes and feeling metal against his neck as his glorious ponytail was cut away. His breathing was getting louder and louder, and if he tried to stifle it, only a higher squeak was achieved. He was getting close to hysterics.

Outside his bedroom door, a floorboard creaked. 

He clamped a hand over his mouth and desperately gritted his teeth. 

Horrible, constricting silence. 

Then, the sound of footsteps retreating down the stairs. 

Once he heard the kitchen door, Viktor let out a gulping, heaving breath and pressed a hand to his chest. 

It was okay. 

He was okay.

He was still crying, but he was quieter.

The footsteps reappeared, but this time, they were fleeting and accompanied by a quick knock. Then, the stairs again.

Viktor wiped his eyes once more, then achingly slowly turned back the covers and walked to the door on shaky legs. He opened it apprehensively.

Waiting for him on the carpet was a mug of steaming tea. 

His smile was minute but genuine. 

He sat down there, cross legged half in his room and half not, and picked up the mug. He was still quivering slightly, and some sloshed over the side onto his fingers, but it was a cold night and he had other things on his mind. 

He sipped it slowly and thoughtfully, and some of the black fog that had settled over his mind began to clear. 

Downstairs, Yakov was trying to watch television. What exactly he was watching he wasn't sure, but he was very determined to watch it and not the door. 

At the sound of movement upstairs, he lowered the volume and waited. The movement got closer. 

Viktor crept into the living room, and Yakov tried very hard to put on a face of nonchalance. 

His platinum hair was dishevelled and sticking up in all manner of places, and his thin dressing gown was falling off one shoulder. His eyes were red and puffy, and his cheeks tear stained. An empty mug hung off one finger. 

Wordlessly, he curled up on the sofa next to Yakov and rested his head on his shoulder.   
'Thank you,' he whispered, painfully quietly. 

Yakov closed his eyes. 

'Who was it... That decided that it was you that would have this pain?'

Viktor didn't reply.

'Someone very... Very... Twisted,' Yakov said lowly. 

They both awoke on the sofa the next morning, and Viktor wore a beaming smile. 

Nothing was discussed, and they both liked it that way.

***

Katya Petrova - Viktor's mother - turned up on his nineteenth, but at the wrong house.   
She'd given him no prior warning, and simply turned up on Ivan's doorstep. Instead of being met with the sight of her now adult son, her ex-husband opened the door, looking considerably drunker than he usually did by two in the afternoon. 

He didn't look in the slightest surprised to see her, nor did he invite her inside. He looked her up and down, then grunted, 'Viktor hasn't lived here for more than a year and a half. Go away.'

Katya blinked and recoiled slightly, taken aback. 

'Oh.'

Ivan growled, and slouched further into the doorframe, fingers clutched around a bottle. 

'Are you deaf? Go away.'

He started to close the door, but she stepped forward and stuck her foot in it. Her movements were defiant, but her words shaky.

'Where can I find him?' 

Ivan kicked her foot out of the way.

'Find him yourself.'

The door slammed shut. 

She sat in the driveway of her old house for a long time. Ivan drew the blinds and shut the curtains. 

She had two options... Spoil the surprise or give up. She was edging closer to give up; Viktor had to get his love for surprises from somewhere, but then she changed her mind. 

She wanted to see her little boy on the birthday after he became a man.

He'd had a year to grow into his skin. 

She wanted to see him strong. 

You can say what you like about her as a mother. About how she didn't fight when Ivan declared that she wasn't welcome in his house anymore and he was keeping the boy. About her radio silence when he won gold and shot to fame. About how it failed to cross her radar that he'd cut ties with his father. 

But she remembered holding Viktor in her arms when he was only seconds old, and being astounded that she'd managed to create something so beautiful. 

She had to see him. 

Viktor hadn't changed his number, and picked up after only four rings. 

'Hello Mama.'

'Happy birthday, darling.'

'Thank you.'

She smiled and took in a breath. 

'You're a man now.'

'Yes, I suppose I am. Have been for a while. By definition.'

There was a long pause. 

'Was... Was there something else?' 

It wasn't cold, but a genuine enquiry. He couldn't think what else she could possibly have to say to him. 

'Viktor...'

'Yes?'

'Where are you living?'

Viktor bit his lip.

'Why?'

'I'm in Russia.'

'Russia's very big.'

'I'm in St Petersburg.'

'Oh.'

Viktor paused, and drummed his fingers on the table. Yakov gave him a look from the living room and he shook his head. 

'Would you like to go for coffee, Mama?'

'...I-'

'I'm living... In a house... Somewhere... With someone. Would you like to go for coffee, Mama?' 

'...yes, I suppose I would.'

'Excellent. I'll text you the details.'

He hung up abruptly. 

Yakov stalked over. 

'Want to tell me...' he trailed off and waved his hand in the air.

Viktor shrugged. 

'I'm going out for coffee with my mother.'

'Oh.'

Yakov was surprised. He'd met Katya exactly once, when she'd dropped her five year old son off at the rink saying, 'Apparently this is something you can do with hyperactive children. I'll be back at four, Viktor.'

'Right. Do you want to be?'

Viktor ran a hand thoughtfully through his hair.

'To be perfectly honest,' he said slowly, 'I couldn't particularly care either way.'

'I'm on the end of the phone if things take a turn.'

'I know. Thank you.'

Yakov watched Viktor as he shoved his feet into his shoes and wrapped a coat around his arms. 

'You don't owe her anything, Viktor. Especially on your birthday.'

'I know. This is for me.'

'Good. Don't be back too late, you need to have a celebratory drink in the presence of the master.'

Viktor chuckled. 

'I look forward to it.'

***

He sat alone in the cafe for a while before texting the address to his mother. The man behind the counter looked at him with a little scrutiny, but he could hardly give Viktor Nikiforov the 'buy something or get out' talk.

He watched the street through a window streaked with condensation. A few flakes of half hearted snow were beginning to fall but didn't settle. He remembered how excited he used to get at the first sign of snow, and how if it was a good day, his mother would smile at him fondly. 

If it wasn't a good day, she'd tell him to shut the hell up and banish him to his room, but he wasn't thinking about that today. 

Today was the day of the happy reunion. 

He typed and retyped the address for a while, first with a kiss, then without, then he put it back again, then deleted it and pressed send. 

It was read and not replied to. 

Twenty minutes later, Viktor was watching as his mother (older now; she'd stopped dying her hair and it was platinum like his own) approached the door, then wandered away, twisting her hands around each other. 

She looked into the window of the next door shop, then came back, fiddling with her scarf.   
She took a deep breath before opening the door, and Viktor watched as she moulded her face into a large smile. 

She spotted him immediately, and made a beeline, hands twitching at her sides. Her thin fingers were weighed down by heavy false nails and chunky rings.

She stopped in front of his table, and beamed at him. It didn't quite meet her eye. She waved her arms a little, as though debating whether or not to hold them out, but ultimately left them at her sides. 

'Happy birthday, darling.'

'You already said. Thank you.'

Katya smiled awkwardly.

'Just as handsome in real life.'

Viktor smiled back. 

Katya grabbed for the chair, slightly jerkily and scraped it back. It groaned along the tiled floor. 

'What I mean is,' she plopped down heavily, 'I've seen you. In all the magazines, and on television and... stuff like that.'

'I guessed. Like I say, thank you.'

She smiled a small bittersweet smile. He was so polite, but so abrupt. So distant. But she wasn't so ignorant that she didn't think she deserved it.

'You've grown up.'

'That's biology for you.'

She swallowed, and grabbed for the coffee menu. She looked at the words without seeing, characters swimming in front of her eyes.

'Have you ordered.'

'No, not yet.'

'Would you,' she thrust the menu forwards, 'like to read first then?' 

'No no, it's okay.'

He leaned back and turned his head towards the window. A lady was walking a poodle outside. He smiled. 

She looked back at the menu, and decided to have a black coffee, simply because she wouldn't have to remember anything when her order was asked for.

She slid it across the table to Viktor, who cast his eyes over it quickly then set it down.   
A silence fell. 

'Do they...' Katya looked over her shoulder, 'Do they take your order or do you have to...' she waved a hand towards the counter. 

'No, you have to go up.'

'Right. I'll go then. And I'll pay.'

She stood up abruptly and walked halfway to the counter before turning on her heel back to the table. 

'What was it you wanted?'

Viktor chuckled.

'Ah yes. I inherited my crap memory from you. Something milky please... doesn't matter what.'

She nodded, and stalked up to the counter. 

Viktor watched her as she ordered. She was all nervous gestures and shaky fingers. Manic laughs and shrill tones of voice. She reminded him a little of himself on a bad day, when Chris would ask him what the matter was and all he could do was laugh. 

The thought made him a bit sad, but he figured that maybe this wasn't how she expected the meeting to go.

Things had changed and she was none the wiser. 

That qualifies as a bad day in his book. 

The coffee was sloshing over the sides of the cups onto the plastic tray when she brought it to the table. 

Viktor took a sip and smiled. 

'Perfect. Thank you.'

Katya pressed her lips together at the bitterness of her own coffee.

'My pleasure.'

They drank in a silence that wasn't quite uncomfortable, but wasn't quite comfortable either.

It felt like something was brewing. 

'... so, Viktor. You don't live with your father anymore.'

Viktor put his mug down and smiled tightly. 

'No, I don't. I haven't for a while.'

'... Any particular reason why?'

Viktor licked some cream from the corner of his mouth. He clasped his hands together.  
'We didn't see eye to eye on some things. It was my choice.'

'Good,' she took a sip, 'You're happy though?'

'Yes. Yes I am.'

'Would you mind telling me,' she gulped, 'Where you're happy now?' 

Viktor smiled sadly and shook his head.

'I'd rather not.'

'Why?'

He clenched his fingers a couple of times, then closed his eyes. When he opened them, he took her hand. They were both cold, like two ice cubes fused together. 

'I think Mama, after all this time, if we're going to meet, it's fair of me to request that it's on my terms. Don't you?'

For as much as Viktor was a stranger to his mother, she could see herself in him. That's how she knew she wasn't going to win. 

'Yes. Yes, I'd say that's fair.'

'Good. In that case, thank you Mama. The coffee was lovely. Have a good night.'

He made it to the door, then hesitated, and for the first time, showed a degree of indecision. He came back to the table and kissed her on the cheek.

'Feel free to stay in touch. I won't change my number.'

And then he was gone. 

She ordered three more cups of black coffee, and was still in a rather numb state when she landed in Turkey the next morning after a sleepless flight. 

Viktor shared two bottles of vodka with Yakov that night, and debated until the early hours whether or not he was sad. 

In a slightly drunken haze on the living room floor, Yakov sitting in the chair above him, he eventually said, 'I don't think my mother makes me sad, Yakov. I don't think she makes me anything.'

Yakov hummed.

'I think that's good, Viktor. Hold onto that.'

'I will.'

Viktor didn't feel much more adult as he drifted off to sleep that night, but he didn't feel like a child either. He thought that was a rather good mix.

***

Viktor watched the world from the top of a podium for a good while. He would not stop winning. 

First he was alone, then Chris joined him in bronze aged seventeen following an impressive senior debut. He was beaming when he looked up at Viktor, standing above him on top of the world. 

Though he'd never admit it, Chris thought that it was rather an honour to lose to Viktor.   
The cameras flashing in Viktor's face were now only stifling when he was antsy and on edge and he no longer wanted to run away. 

He loved seeing the crowd light up and hearing them roar when he won. He found it funny that journalists no longer asked him if but how he expected to win next time. 

Yakov reprimanded him for correcting them.

'Be confident, Viktor,' he cried after watching his latest interview, 'If you don't think you're going to win, neither will anyone else.'

His nineteenth and twentieth years passed in a blur of successes and press conferences and easy nights.

He was happier than he ever expected to be. 

Neither of his parents made contact once, and he didn't give a flying fuck. 

***

Viktor's twenty-first birthday was a bittersweet affair. 

He and Yakov spent it moving boxes from the house into Viktor's new flat, on the fifth floor of an apartment building in central St Petersburg.

It was modern and clean, with a sizeable living space. It had two en-suite bedrooms and a large kitchen-diner, as well as an open sitting room and a box room. The previous owners had used the box room as a study, but Viktor intended to use it as a dressing room come enormous medal cabinet.

He simply refused to be one of those falsely modest "keep the trophies in the bathroom" types. 

It was very close to the rink - only a two minute walk - and therefore very convenient. It was furnished comfortably, but in monochromes and Viktor was looking forward to filling it with the random clutter he'd acquired over the years. 

There was a sizeable amount of this random clutter, he and Yakov found as they made more return trips than they'd bargained for to and from the house in Yakov's small and increasingly frail car. His elaborate costumes took up most of the space, and they were, unfortunately the things he was most reluctant to part with. 

When Yakov had suggested he bin a couple, Viktor had threatened to bin his medals along with them. 

He wasn't remotely joking. 

After all his things had been dropped off, they took one more trip back to Yakov's house, for a birthday meal of solyanka soup and borscht. It was special because it was what they'd done so many times before.

Viktor wondered when exactly it had become familiar. When this had become his normal.   
It was simple and it was perfect. 

For the first time that meal, Viktor wasn't afraid to talk in the past tense. 

He spoke about his time on the podium, and dog walks with Chris and Macca, and how pretty St Petersburg had looked in the snow. 

He talked about when Yakov had bought him the skates, and how light he felt after coffee with his mother, and how the cameras flashing in his face didn't feel like flares anymore but stars. 

He talked about how his mother used to braid his hair. 

He smiled and fell silent. 

Then Yakov began to speak in the present. 

He talked about how Viktor looked happy and relaxed, and how warm the house felt.   
And before he could talk anymore, he began to clear away the bowls. 

While Yakov was washing up, Viktor crept up the stairs to the bedroom he had called home since everything fell apart three and a half years ago. 

It was strange to see it bare, as it had been when Yakov had showed it to him on that night that he'd never looked back from. 

He perched on the bed, and took in the atmosphere. The feeling. The smell. 

He listened as Yakov's large feet shuffled below him, and wondered if he'd be able to get used to a silent house again. 

The future was stretching out in front of him and it was quiet. 

'Come on Viktor, downstairs. It's getting dark. If we don't leave now, I'll never be rid of you,' if Yakov's voice was cracking, it wasn't addressed. 

They hummed along to the radio on the drive to the flat. 

'I won't come in with you,' Yakov had the good sense to say. 

Viktor nodded. 

He began to open the door then stopped. 

He leaned over and pulled Yakov into a tight hug. 

Yakov stiffened in shock at first, then hugged back equally as tightly. 

'Thank you so. So much,' Viktor gritted out into Yakov's ear.

Yakov sniffed. 

'Thank you. At first I didn't know if you'd let me help.'

'I did. I did let you help.'

'Never stop doing that.'

Viktor nodded curtly and let go.

This time he really did leave. 

Neither waved as Yakov drove away. They'd see each other in the morning for practice anyway. 

Viktor kept it together until around half past nine, when he received a text from Chris.  
//"Piss drunk parents in bed. Outside with your present."//

Viktor replied with, //"Come up."// and a couple of minutes later, there was a knock at the door. 

Viktor's present jumped into his arms, wearing a large pink bow around his fluffy neck. He ran a couple of laps around his new home, then barked happily and settled himself onto the sofa. 

Viktor nearly cried when he realised that perhaps his future wasn't going to be quiet after all. 

***

The five year anniversary of Viktor's first gold medal rolled around and he struggled. He flubbed more jumps in that day than he had in years, and he moped around the building during breaks. At lunch time, he picked at his food, and drank more coffee than was possibly healthy, and certainly more than was in his diet plan. 

Chris watched him carefully. He winced whenever Viktor stumbled, and listened intently to the frustrated grumbles he let out. By mid-afternoon, he couldn't stand it and made his decision.

When Viktor finished a pitiful semblance of his programme, Yakov told him with his head in his hands despairingly to take a moment to compose himself. He left the ice with his head hung, and thudded down onto one of the benches. 

Chris skated to the edge of the ice, and leaned over the barrier. 

'You and I, my friend,' Viktor looked up, 'Are going to spend tonight getting gloriously drunk.'

Viktor remained still for a while, staring at Chris with vacant eyes. 

'Spectacular idea. Couldn't have thought of better myself.' 

Yakov, from the other side of the rink glared at them, because he had apparently developed omnipotence. 

Viktor made a mental note not to ask him to feed Macca that night.

***

He hated to conform to stereotypes, but Viktor really fucking loved vodka. 

The first had negative connotations... nights spent with the lights off as his father grew drunker and his mutterings rougher, but once his throat was burning and his stomach warm, he was flying. 

Of course, being one for vibrancy he needed something brighter too. Sweet, sticky cocktails in ridiculous shades of pink and purple. The sharp flavours exploded and danced as pinpricks of pleasure on his tongue. His throat felt lined with satin, and his stomach weighted down like an exquisite antique paper weight. 

The room was pulsating and vibrating, heavy beat starting at his feet and travelling up his legs, then through his torso and into his arms and chest. His head was above it all detached and floating, swathed in cotton wool and blissful. 

He was certain he was immortal. 

He was in the very least untouchable. 

He started off as a prima ballerina, loose and flexible, leg above his shoulders and chin tilted up towards the fluorescent lighting. Then he was a ballroom dancer, feet planted firmly on the floor, body moving fluidly with the music, entangled in the arms of a stranger, then Chris, then a stranger. He was Fred Astaire, timeless and elegant, and his Ginger Rodgers was faceless and sturdy. 

After that, he wasn't sure what he was, but he was sure he was beautiful. Light headed and uninhibited, living and laughing like tomorrow didn't exist. He was every speck of visible light in the universe, a star that would never explode, something young and bright and wonderful.

There was sweat beading on his forehead and a smile on his face, and he was thinking, 'my god... if it gets any better than this then life really is worth living.'

***

'Can we go out?' Viktor slurred, forehead pressed to the bar and arms hanging limply at his sides. 

Chris knocked back the remaining half of his cocktail, and said in an equally distorted voice, 'Where?'

Viktor turned his head so that his cheek was now smushed against the marble. He had a silly, lopsided grin on his face.

'I don't know. I don't care. Anywhere. I love the whole world.'

Chris chuckled. 

'I'm glad.'

Viktor threw back his head and leaned back on the bar stool, hair tossed into a strange, half-hearted quiff. He pursed his lips in what would be on a sober person a thoughtful expression. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a drowning goldfish then asked, 'Where are your parents?'

Chris shrugged loosely.

'I dunno. Possibly... Mordor?'

Viktor considered this carefully. 

'I don't think that's a real place.'

'Isn't it?'

'I don't think so.'

'Oh. Maybe not then.'

Viktor sipped on his latest concoction, something unnaturally blue harbouring potentially enough paper umbrellas to weave together into a real, functional umbrella. 

'Your house is like... Really big.'

'Yeah... It's like... A hundred of your flats. A thousand. A bazillion.'

'And you don't think your parents are in it?'

'I don't...' he dragged out the words, 'think... so.'

Viktor leaned in, and rested his chin on his hand. He was sprawled over most of the surface of the bar. 

'Could we go there?'

Chris ran a clumsy hand through his hair, and thought. Then realised that thinking in his current state was unlikely to amount to anything so answered impulsively. 

'Yeah. If you want.'

'Cool.'

***

How exactly they managed to navigate the streets back to Chris's house on unsure feet was a mystery, but they did. 

His parents were indeed out, though whether they were in Mordor or not was questionable. Viktor was upside down on one of the velvet sofas in the expansive living room, feet dangling over the backrest. Chris was mashing at the stereo buttons with clumsy fingers, trying and failing to put some music on. 

'Have you tried the big red one?' Viktor called, tongue getting caught on the words, 'There's usually a big red one.'

'I'm so drunk I've forgotten what the colours look like.'

'Red's like... Yakov in a bad mood. That kind of colour.'

'Ah... Yes.'

He jabbed the button with vigour, and the room filled with the sound of a sweeping waltz. Both he and Viktor giggled. 

Chris stumbled over to him and grabbed his ankles, spun them around, then dropped them so that Viktor was splayed horizontally along the sofa. 

'Shall we dance?'

Viktor grinned. 

They staggered around the living room, with their hands placed wherever they happened to land on the other's body. They were completely out of time with the music, breaking into raucous lindy hop style routines as gentle violins swelled, and mock-tender slow dances during soaring crescendos. 

They danced in this haphazard manner, moving to whatever melodies entered their scrambled brains, until long after the CD had finished. 

When they stopped, they got hungry, and Chris fetched a loaf of sliced bread and a jar of honey with two spoons from the kitchen. 

They ate the bread dry, and fed each other honey straight from the jar, giggling like schoolchildren as it dripped down their chins. As the clock struck four, they lay down beside each other on the carpet, full and warm and buzzing. The white ceiling swam in front of their vision. 

Chris let his eye wander to the window, curtains open against the black night. In the distance, an aeroplane flew overhead. 

He sighed. 

'I'm getting itchy feet again, Viktor. Five years... Long time.'

'Are you?' Viktor picked at a piece of carpet, and stuck out his bottom lip, 'What are you going to do about that?'

'I suppose... I'm going to get on a plane and go somewhere else.'

'That's a good idea. That'll stop you being restless.'

'Hmm.'

Chris let silence fall over the room for a while.

'How do you feel about that.'

Viktor carried on picking at the carpet.

'I think... I'm a little bit sad, but happy that I'm only sad.'

Chris frowned, 'Why's that?'

'Because at one time, I would have been really, really scared if you'd left. Now I don't need you. I'll just miss you.'

Chris nodded thoughtfully. 

'You never did tell me... Why you needed me to come in the first place. What it was that fell apart.'

'You didn't guess?'

'I guessed bits.'

Viktor sighed. 

'I like boys. Daddy didn't like that I like boys. He also didn't like my hair. Or my personality. But mostly that I like boys. The others were like... Collateral damage.'

'You use more big words when you're drunk.'

'Hmm.'

Chris placed his hand beside where Viktor was picking at the carpet. 

'I like boys too.'

'That's nice.'

'Did you know that?'

'I thought I did. But it's nice to hear it. I only ever said it once. Before today, that is.'

'Say it a few more times.'

Chris leaned up onto his elbow, and put his head on his hand, looking down at Viktor. His hair was fanned out on the ground, and his eyes staring blankly upwards. 

'I like boys,' he said quietly. Then louder, 'I like boys. I like boys. I really, really like boys.'

He breathed heavily. 

'Good?' Chris asked. 

'Good.' Viktor replied firmly.

Then, he leaned up on his elbow too, so he was facing Chris. 

'Things got so much better after you came. I mean, not straight away. But you helped. A lot.'

Chris smiled. Viktor didn't even know that it was him who got him the room with Yakov. He intended to keep it that way. 

'I have no idea how to repay you. How to even start.'

Chris kept looking at Viktor. His eyes were sparkling and slightly glazed over, and his marble skin was positively glowing even in the low light. 

He spoke slowly. 

'I suppose... Since we're both ridiculously drunk and it wouldn't mean anything... We could have sex. Don't think we need to. We just... Could.'

Viktor raised his eyebrows.

'Yes, we could. I think that would be nice.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

So they stumbled upstairs and had sex in Chris' childhood bed. 

In the morning, they held back each other's hair as the alcohol took it's toll, and agreed over the breakfast table that, though pleasant, it was a one time occurrence. 

Chris changed his home rink to Berlin the next month, and Viktor waved him off at the airport. 

Maccachin whined that night and Viktor wondered if he knew. 

They cuddled up together under the sheets, as they would for a long time to come.

***

With Chris gone, Yakov began scouting for new, fresh talent. He could rely on Viktor for medals, but needed some fresh blood... some prodigies he could pump his instructive and constructive cold hard coaching into, without the emotional attachment he'd forged (however unwillingly) with Viktor. Georgi, two years Viktor's junior, skated like a beacon of anger. As though if he carved into the ice enough, it'd hurt instead of him. He felt in shades of red and black, angry at society and the government and the lovers that had left him.   
He was the perfect contrast to Viktor in his soft technicolour, guaranteed to shock the audience when he appeared under Yakov's coaching in competition. 

The relationship between him and Viktor wasn't warm like it was with Chris... friendly jibes and the feeling of someone having his back on the ice was replaced by separation and silences. But it wasn't cold. It was just... indifferent. 

Natasha was a young prodigy, like Viktor had been. At just fifteen, she skated with an intensity and precision seen in few. She moved as a vessel for the full spectrum of emotions. Viktor thought she was wonderful. 

She was quiet, and tended to hide behind her mass of long hair, as Viktor remembered doing when he was younger and less inhibited. 

And when Viktor saw her dropped off at the rink by a woman who held no resemblance and seemingly no warmth, he saw a kindred spirit. 

It took a while for them to become amicable, but Viktor started eating beside her, then dropping her off home after training, and popping out to take her to school some mornings. (He was surprised when her place of residence changed four times in a year, but he never mentioned it, nor the fact that she looked at whoever happened to answer the door like a stranger.)

Then, they'd have conversations on the ice, and he'd tell her what to do with her arms when they didn't know what to do during routines. 

She fed Maccachin when Viktor went away to visit Chris in the summer, and he swept her hair into a ponytail when she was spent and sweating after a difficult practice. 

He held her when she fell at her senior debut and swore off skating forever. 

After that, if any of her school friends asked, she said he was her big brother. 

And she still went to the rink every day. 

***

Viktor was curled up on the sofa one day, in the spring of his twenty-third year, with Macca dozing under his legs, when he realised that he'd never been in love. 

He'd never caught the eye of a handsome stranger and done a double take. He'd never felt his heart drop to his feet, or his pupils melt into inky puddles, or lain awake at night thinking about the way someone's teeth shine when they smile. 

He'd never slow danced sober, and never watched the stars next to a warm body. Never synchronised his breathing so that they were moving and living as one. 

He wondered if he'd like to.

Then he remembered how his stomach had done... A thing... When Thomas Andropov had kissed him on the cheek on the last day of school, and thought that, yes. Being in love was something he could rather get into. 

He thought about sharing popcorn at the cinema, and gondolas in Venice. Candlelit dinners. 

Macca whimpered, and when Viktor lifted his legs, he leapt off the sofa and padded over to his food bowl. 

Viktor smiled.

'I suppose a romantic meal with you is all I'm getting for the while.'

Macca tilted his head, and looked rather miffed. 

Viktor shrugged.

'Don't look at me like that, I'm well aware that there are worse things.'

He arranged Macca's nuggets of dry food into a heart, and snorted, before covering it. He then grabbed himself a dinner of crisps and reheated coffee, and sat cross legged next to him on the kitchen floor. He absentmindedly picked at the coarse curls of fur, while Macca chomped away happily. 

It was with deep emotion that he realised how very lucky, but how very lonely he was.   
He was a single man living alone, and he had a strong, if unconventional father figure, and an adoptive little sister, and a best friend at the end of a telephone. (Even in the early hours; Chris regarded sleep as for the weak.) It was more than he'd once had, and more than he'd dared to hope he'd ever have. But when left with only his dog and his memories, he had nothing to call upon. 

He had never been in love. 

As his head hit the pillow that night, an he thought again, this time with a raging passion, that he'd rather like to be in love. 

But he decided to wait, and let whatever mutation of fate it is that governs the universe take its course. 

***

In the Autumn of that year, as the leaves were shrivelling up, so did a little bit of the life Viktor had carved out for himself. 

Macca had seemed to know something was up, and instead of going to bed, sniffed suspiciously around the flat for long after the moon had come up. Viktor laughed, as his enormous feet pressed into whichever surface he had decided was under scrutiny. It was funny, until it wasn't anymore and Viktor wanted to go to sleep. 

In the end, he had to physically manhandle him into bed, his large body slung awkwardly under one arm.

Viktor never thought he'd be grateful for all that ridiculous weight training Yakov had made him do as a teenager. 

It was a cold night, and he pressed his nose into Macca's fur as the wind howled outside. For some reason, the backs of his eyelids were grey that night. 

The phone rang just past three. 

It was the landline, which was odd, as he hadn't used it for years except to put on forms and legal documents he only half understood. 

He almost didn't recognise the noise, and had to be nudged out of bed by an admittedly wise wet nose before he registered that he'd have to pick it up if he wanted to go back to sleep. He picked it up with fumbling hands, still in the dark and perched on the edge of the sofa. 

'Yes? Hello?' he mumbled. 

'Mr Nikiforov.'

'Yes. Me. That's me.'

'Hello, with regret, I'm calling from St. Petersburg hospital stroke department. Your father was admitted a few hours ago.'

'Oh,' he said groggily. Then he woke up a little and said, 'Oh. Oh.'

'We attempted to make contact with his ex wife - your mother I understand - but she's a long way away. It took him a while, but the next person he requested was... You.'

'Oh.'

His articulacy had apparently been reduced to that of a bumbling fool. Which he supposed, at three in the morning with his world rocked, he was. 

'It would be much appreciated if you could come down.'

'I...' Viktor trailed off.

The scissors, and the vodka, and his ponytail in the sink flashed before his eyes.

'I need to make a phone call first.'

***

He called Chris and explained the situation in a numb and detached voice. The only time his impenetrable wall of something that wasn't indifference, but seemed like it broke, was when Chris suggested phoning Yakov. 

'No no no no no.' he choked out in panic, 'I can't involve him, I can't.' 

'Viktor... you've got nobody else in the country who can properly help you.'

'Don't call him.' 

Chris told Viktor to stay put, hung up and promptly phoned Yakov. 

Viktor knew exactly what he'd, done - he wasn't an idiot - and instead of being angry, he put his head in his hands and fisted his hands around his hair. 

What. A. Mess. 

His father had become an abstract half-remembered construct, while he was waving at crowds from the top of podiums and waving gold medals into the flashes of cameras. He'd been forgotten; he was gone. He existed only in snapshots of a life that was now foreign, of empty bottles and cold houses and severed ponytails. 

Now he existed in the image of a powerful man fallen and sunken into crisp bedsheets. And he hadn't even seen him yet.

There was a sharp, brisk knock at the door.

Viktor shuffled over to it heavily, and opened it a crack. 

'You never listen, do you?'

Yakov was standing there, in a heavy overcoat, looking about as awake and cheerful as he could be expected to. 

'Keep asking for help, I said.'

He threw his hands up sufferingly. Viktor stepped aside, and let him in silently. 

Yakov stamped his feet on the welcome mat and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

'Are we going?'

Viktor swallowed and put a hand to his forehead. He breathed in loudly. 

'I don't... I don't know. I should.'

'Why should you?'

Viktor dropped down onto the sofa, and pulled his knees up under his chin. 

'Because he's my father and he's ill.'

Yakov perched beside him.

'He's only your father biologically, then however much you want him to be.'

Viktor made a noise into his knees, then turned to Yakov. 

'I don't want him to be my father much. I can't forgive him... I can't love him... however ill he is.'

'Nobody's asking you to.'

Viktor groaned. Macca padded over and nudged his foot. He patted him on the head absently. 

'I suppose... I'd better go and get dressed.'

'You sure.'

'No.'

But he stood up and began to slouch towards the bedroom. 

He turned as he reached the door. 

'You can go home, Yakov. I didn't want Chris to call you.'

Yakov gave him a glare.

'I know you didn't. Stupid boy,' but it was fond, 'You're not going alone. To be honest, if it was my decision you wouldn't be going at all. But since you're all moral and... whatever,' he flapped a hand, 'I'm coming with you.'

'It's quarter to four in the morning.'

'So I see.'

Yakov blinked at him, and Viktor blinked back with weary eyes.

'Go and put some trousers on Viktor.'

He sighed.

'Yes Yakov.'

***

Waiting rooms are always bleak, always cold, and never pleasant. 

Viktor sat with his nose pressed into his clenched fists, with Yakov slumped beside him with drooping eyelids. They were the only people in there, and the only noises were buzzing strip lights and the occasional squeaky wheel of a trolley in a distant corridor. They were both trapped in their own thoughts and fatigue. 

Viktor was afraid of what he'd meet when he entered the room, and Yakov was afraid of which Viktor would walk out.

They sat through the darkness of the clock striking five, then Yakov began to doze as the first light began to peep hesitantly through the blinds at half past. 

Viktor's bloodshot eyes remained wide. 

A nurse crept in at quarter to six. 

'I'm sorry you had to wait so long,' she murmured, 'He's ready for you now.'

'Thank you.'

He unfolded himself from his guarded position, and cracked his back on standing. The nurse stood awkwardly before Yakov. 

'Does... He need waking?'

'He's awake,' said a gruff grumble. 

He ran a hand down his weathered face.

'Do you want me in there, or shall I wait here?'

Viktor pursed his lips, and shifted his weight onto one hip.

'Here. I think. Please.'

Yakov nodded.

'Shout if I'm needed.'

He turned his collar up, and promptly let his eyes fall shut again.

Viktor followed the nurse down the small corridor and towards a white door. 

'I understand you two haven't been in contact recently. Or... That's the impression your mother gave me.'

Viktor nodded. 

'She's right. I haven't seen him for... God, just over six years.'

The nurse hummed, and smiled sadly.

'I imagine... He'll be quite different then. Just... Prepare yourself.'

('I have,' he almost said, 'I've prepared myself for seeing him again in every nightmare since teen-hood, but never like this. I didn't expect to be in control.')

She opened the door and entered the room.

'Your son's here, Mr Nikiforov. Like you requested.'

Viktor heard a muffled moan, and stepped into the room. 

His father was slumped into the bed, with the left side of his face sunken and arm hanging limply at his side. His right hand was clenched into a fist around the bed sheets. He was still red, and large, but instead of looking imposing, he just looked deflated. 

'It could have been much worse,' the nurse whispered into his ear, 'He appears to be... Mostly there, just a bit stuck. The left side's the worst.'

Viktor's mouth fell open, as words tried to escape, but he didn't know what to say.

What was there to say?

He felt a stab in his chest, and closed his mouth, then swallowed and said, 'Good morning, Dad.'

It was a pitiful attempt at initiating something, and his father simply looked him up and down with an uncoordinated gaze. He felt like he was being scrutinised at the dinner table again, at fifteen, or nine, or four, or whichever age before seventeen you happened to pull out. They all blurred into one now. 

'You wanted me to come and see you. So I have.'

The nurse, bless her, sprung into action, and pulled a chair up to Ivan's bedside. She motioned enthusiastically for Viktor to sit in it. He pulled it away from the bed a little, creating about three feet of distance between them, then sat stiffly. 

'I'm sure he's very grateful, aren't you Mr Nikiforov?' she said cheerfully, in a tone that implied that no answer was to be expected. Ivan don't look very grateful. He didn't look very anything. 

'Do you want me here, Dad?'

Ivan didn't reply, but looked down at his fist. He was most certainly aware.

'I know you're in there... I know you could answer if you wanted to. Why did you ask me to come?'

The nurse looked uncomfortable, but giggled, if a little uneasily.

'Yes, you were a little more talkative earlier. Tell Viktor about the weather, or the football, like you were telling me earlier.'

Ivan was silent.

Viktor waited for a few, long seconds, then stood and turned to the nurse.

'I don't believe he wants me here. And if I'm apparently making him regress, I don't think it's beneficial that I am. Thank you for your time.'

The nurse looked slightly taken aback, but made no effort to stop him. She said nothing.  
He began to walk numbly towards the door, but then a slur sounded from the bed.

'Vvv... Vvv...'

'Yes Dad?'

Viktor turned around and swallowed, hands fisted at his sides.

'Vvv... Viktor...'

Viktor waited. Ivan lifted his heavy head to look at him, and gritted the words out of the right side of his mouth. 

'I... Mmm... Mmm... Made you. It... Was... Me.'

Viktor hadn't prepared himself for that. Sensing that this was a sensitive subject, the nurse retreated to the corner of the room, and began pressing buttons on the wall.

'What do you mean by that?'

'I... Mmm... Made you a... Fff... Fighter. A... Soldier.'

He paused and took a heaving breath, nostrils flaring like a bull.

'I mmm... Made you... Win medals.'

Viktor looked at him blankly. It made him a little sad that the reassurance his father had given himself that the kind of parent he'd been was so fragile.

'No Dad, you didn't. All you made me was terrified of building a family, and petrified of myself. I hope you get well soon.'

'Vvv... Viktor.'

He didn't reply.

'Treatment for th... th... this. In America. Expensive.'

'What happened to your fortune, Dad?'

Silence. 

('Liquid courage,' Viktor's brain supplied, 'Liquid courage and unused AA subscriptions.')

'So that's what this was? I'm funding your treatment am I?'

Silence again. Ivan had the decency not to look him in the eye. 

Viktor began to open the door.

He tired sharply on his heel, then surprising even himself, said, 'I'll think about it. Shall I come back tonight?'

Ivan was still looking down.

'I suppose I will. Don't get too excited.' 

He slammed the door on the way out.

He didn't tell Yakov what had happened and he didn't ask.

He also didn't tell him that he was coming back. 

As the road surged past the windows, on the way back to his flat, a single tear rolled down his cheek. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was that hurt but something did.

He swiped it away quickly and leaned his head against the glass. 

***

His day on the ice was surreal. He'd had no sleep, eaten very little, and his head was entirely somewhere else. 

Yakov hadn't suggested that he take the day off, because he knew how well received that suggestion would be. Instead, he said that he himself was taking a half day, and Viktor could do as he pleased in the morning - either go home, or go to the rink. 

He skated in aimless circles for most of the morning, in a desperate attempt to organise his thoughts. Instead, they bled together into a pool of acid, sharp and burning, but also muggy and painful. 

Natasha watched him from the sidelines with a questioning gaze he didn't see. She was seventeen and growing in confidence, and terribly pleased that she no longer had to go to school. She was also free from the care system, and solitude at home suited her.   
Her senior debut fall had knocked her confidence, and she still hadn't competed professionally, but she was getting there. Viktor had been periodically prodding her to sign up, even for small local competitions. It wasn't quite working, but she no longer rolled her eyes. 

She watched as Viktor glided clumsily with heavy eyelids. It worried her; however familiar they were, he was still her hero and she was unaccustomed to seeing him at less than his best. She actually knew little about him, just that he lived alone with his dog, so saw only a man who'd had no sleep - not an enormous cause for concern by itself. But there was something about the heaviness of his limbs and the ice in his gaze that spoke of something more than fatigue. She narrowed her eyes.  

Yakov arrived at midday, (also looking a little worse for wear) and Viktor seemed to wake up. He began to carve the ice into vicious shreds, fire pouring out of his feet. His chin remained tilted towards the ground, gaze blazing and cutting. 

Yakov picked Viktor up on his free leg, and his emotion and his fluidity, and Viktor skated harder and harder, breath coming in fits and starts of gasps and gulps. He skated until he was sodden and withered, with Yakov shouting brutally to high heaven. 

It looked like it was hurting him. 

Natasha stood beside him quietly. 

She ran her tongue over her lips, then said, 'I don't think he's... good. If he's off his game,   
maybe this isn't the time to-'

'It's what he needs. He can't be alone with his thoughts too much and he needs to sleep tonight.'

She turned her head to where Viktor was draped over the barrier, legs shaking and limp. He was red and panting, and gripping on with white knuckles. 

She picked up a bottle of water and sidled over. He didn't look up, so she put the bottle to his lips, then guided one of his hands to it. 

He drank like an intoxicated man, swallowing the bottle dry in one gulp. He swiped the back of his hand messily over his mouth, then finally looked at Natasha. 

'Thanks.'

'No problem. Something up?'

Viktor sighed.

'Nothing at all,' then he smiled emptily. 

Natasha pulled a face.

'Yakov seems to think so.'

'Yakov thinks a lot of things.'

She looked him up and down, and came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to share anything he didn't want to. 

She shrugged slightly. 

'Early night then?'

'Absolutely.'

He was lying, but would have very much liked for it to be true. 

***

Viktor arrived at the hospital alone this time, and the nurse had changed. This one barely glanced at him when he walked into the room, before resuming whatever bustling chores she was doing. 

Ivan looked surprised when he walked in. Viktor raised an eyebrow.

'What? I'm true to my word.'

The nurse flattened her mouth into a line, and Viktor smiled at her. She blinked, then wordlessly slipped out of the room. 

Viktor pulled up the chair that he'd sat in the previous day, and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees, and folded himself in a little. Ivan looked at him with anticipation. He let the silence settle into something cold and icy, then let out a breath. 

'Okay. You're sick. Well done. Congratulations. But that doesn't mean I can forgive you, and it certainly doesn't make you a good person.'

Ivan's mobile right side shifted, and he clenched his fingers. 

'If I'm going to pay for your treatments it won't be for you. It'll be for my clear conscience, and it won't be for free. I'm going to need something from you.'

Ivan swallowed, then spoke haltingly for the first time. 

'Www.. What?'

'We tried it a while ago. Didn't go so well.'

Ivan swallowed thickly, then repeated, 'Www... What? What is it?'

'You're going to apologise to me.'

Viktor saw the colour drain from his face, and thought that perhaps it was his pride going with it. There was silence.

'Come on, Dad. Save your own life.'

A trolley rattled past outside. 

'Dad...'

No sound. No words. No apology. 

Viktor laughed harshly. 

'God, is your mindset really that fragile? Because that's sad. You can't apologise to your son for the despicable things you did over half a decade ago because of... What? Empty fucking pride?'

Ivan opened his mouth once, then a second time. His familiar red glow of anger was beginning to shade the base of his neck. 

'It... Was... To make you... Safer... Better. To... Improve you.'

Viktor shook his head vigorously. 

'You made me terrified. You made me a scared and sad person for a long, long time. The improvements that made me win medals were either self inflicted or because of the family I chose for myself. I'm not perfect... I've drunk myself blind, and snapped at people, and said things I don't mean, and overworked myself to death's doorstep, but I've lived and I've learned without you. The only thing you did when you hurt me was set me free because I realised you're just not worth trying to impress.' 

Viktor spat the last few words, and felt light. 

The side of Ivan's face that was properly co-operating had gritted teeth.

'I... Stopped you... From entering into... That lifestyle. That... Was me. You should be... Grateful.'

Viktor let out another shrill laugh.

'That's really sad. You fool. You utter, utter fool.'

He got closer to the bed, and stood above his father. 

'I like wearing flowers, Dad. I wear tight costumes in front of international news journalists. I try to look pretty gliding across the ice to earn my living. I had sex with a man. I fucked my best friend. Can you accept that, Dad? You failed. Cutting my hair didn't make me like boys any less. Shocking, right?'

Ivan's right hand lurched up suddenly, and he caught a fist full of Viktor's hair. The strength in his arm had diminished, but his fingers were still strong and stayed tangled around the fragile strands as his elbow gave out. Viktor was pulled down to kneeling beside the bed, a sharp pain in his scalp and knees. The shock jarred him, and for a moment he was young and vulnerable. His face was pressed into the mattress, so he couldn't see his father's drooping face ignited with a terrifying rage. He pushed Viktor's head further into the sheets, letting out a guttural grunt as he did so. 

After Viktor had gotten over the initial shock, he had the advantage. He reached up with two hands, and prised his father's fist off his head. He took in a deep breath - he had after all, been close to being smothered - then composed himself. His face was scarily calm.   
Ivan was unsettled, and all of the rage on his face dissipated. He was, apparently, even shocked himself himself with his actions. 

'Hair still your only line of attack? Come on. Hit me.'

He bent back over the bed. His father was still. 

'Come on,' Viktor even opened his arms invitingly. After a long moment, he let them drop, sighed, and stepped back from the bed. 

'Well, you fucked that up for yourself, didn't you?'

Viktor didn't expect a response, but waited anyway. 

'I'll pay for ten per cent of your treatment to clear my conscience. No more. Ten per cent. Goodbye Dad.'

He made it half way to the door, then spun around, eyes narrowed into slits. 

'You know what, I'll even give you one more chance. Anything you'd like to say?'

Ivan made a noise at the back of his throat. He looked like he was fighting an internal battle, mouth opening and closing aimlessly, and eyes rolling back and forth in their sockets. Viktor watched in enthralment. After a few long moments, he stared at Viktor with a hard gaze, then simply let his eyes close.

'Right then.'

Viktor nodded, with pursed lips, and for the second time slammed the door on his way out. He managed to wait until showering that night to cry, and even then they were quick, strategic tears. 

A release of pent up adrenaline, that was all. 

The next he heard of his father was in spring, when the mortuary called him in to identify the body. 

A positive identification was made. 

***

Ivan Nikiforov died on the 24th of April, in the bedroom of his own home. 

In Autumn, he'd sold some furniture and gently persuaded (blackmailed) his ex-wife to fund the remainder of his treatment. He'd completed a five month programme, (during which he was a rude and stubborn patient, but made quick and efficient progress) and arrived home at the beginning of the month. Then, after only a few days of obedience, and against the wishes of his doctors, he'd begun drinking again. Drinking lots and lots of vodka, and whiskey, and rum, and wine all from the safety of his bedroom. He subsided solely on crisp packets and alcohol, and spent the days shouting at the radio. 

One day, the neighbour came by because she could no longer hear his shouting.

He was found with an obliterated liver, dead and lying on a bed of bottles, litter and a three week old figure skating magazine supplement.   
   
***

Viktor's head was leaned against the window, and his lips pressed to his fist. He was digging his nails into his palm to stop himself from shaking, and his eyes were squeezed shut. A horrible pressure was building up in his head as the car rolled along the bleak countryside. The air was still and stifling, his body tense and his chest constricting.   
It was a bleak, grey June morning, with a muggy sky and ominous clouds grouping overhead. Time seemed to be dragging along, wet and bedraggled, and Viktor was on his way to bury his father. 

His mother too was in the car, staring blankly out of the window on the other side. Her hands were perfectly manicured, her neck adorned with elaborate pendants, and her hair piled into a striking silver bun. Her thin legs were tightly crossed. She looked like a picture of put together-ness and indifference, if not for the rubbing motion she was making with her thumb and forefinger. 

Chris was smushed awkwardly between the two, pressed again Viktor's side to avoid contact with the stranger on his other side as much as possible. He'd met Katya for the first time that morning, when she'd been sipping coffee on Viktor's sofa on his arrival, completely ignoring Macca's affectionate nudges. 

He'd decided he didn't like her very much. 

Viktor had been standing in the kitchen aimlessly moving plates between cupboards, unshaven and dressed in his pyjamas and a silk dressing gown, despite the fact that the car was set to arrive to take them to the funeral in half an hour. His eyes were empty. Chris steered him into the bedroom, and stood him before the suit hung up over the wardrobe. 

'That the one?'

'Yep.'

'Off you go then.'

Viktor nodded, then shook his head a little.

'I still need to um... Shower.'

Chris nodded. 

'Okay then. I'll wait here,' Chris said, considering the awkwardness of sitting in the living room with Katya. 

He perched on the bed, and smiled a small smile. Viktor swept into the bathroom, the suit hanger clutched in one hand. The blue tie slid off and pooled on the floor, unnoticed as he pulled the door shut behind him. 

Chris scooped it up, and heard the water trickle on, then burst into a stream. He wrapped the tie around his fingers, then put his head in his hands. 

'Oh, Viktor,' he murmured. 

He didn't dare hazard a guess about what was going on in Viktor's head.

He emerged about fifteen minutes later, hair damp and skin red. His eyes were red too, and Chris pretended he believed it was because of the shampoo. He was wearing his dress trousers, shirt and jacket, but his cuffs were undone, his shirt untucked and his feet bare. 

'Only half dressed, Vik.'

'I know.'

'Need help?'

'No.'

He leaned against the wall and fumbled with his cuffs for a while, then gave up and began to rummage in his sock drawer. He perched beside Chris on the bed and yanked a pair on. His foot dropped heavily when he'd finished. 

With a sigh, he thrust his wrist in Chris' direction, who buttoned his cuffs wordlessly. After that, Chris stood up and took Viktor's hands, pulling him up after him. Viktor rose floppily, stumbling gracelessly on clumsy feet.

Chris hung the tie around his neck, and Viktor turned his collar up. Chris knew he could well have managed it himself, but carried on knotting it. It was a sign of, "I'm here for you," and a sign of, "I'm here for you more than the bare minimum." It was an echo of the "Hurt in front of me," of a lifetime ago. He gently turned the collar down, as Viktor began stuffing his shirt into his trousers. 

Chris stepped back.

'Dashing as always.'

Viktor snorted.

'Not planning on pulling today.'

Chris shrugged. 

'You never know,' then he placed a gentle hand on Viktor's shoulder, 'If you want to leave at any point...'

'I will. Thanks. Sorry you have to be here.'

'Don't be stupid.'

He pulled him into a tight, warm hug. Viktor was tense against his shoulder, and hung on a little as he pulled away. 

'Come on then.'

Back in the car, they pulled up on a gravel driveway. Chris placed a supportive hand on Viktor's knee. He unclenched his fist and opened his eyes, swallowing hard. With a shaky breath, he closed his fingers around the hand on his knee. Then, as he heard the click of his mother opening her door, he let go and began to follow her. 

***

The ceremony was forty five minutes of religious jargon that nobody present believed in. The sparsely populated room was laid out with rows of plastic chairs, people dotted between gaping holes, and tall flowers lining the yellowed walls. 

On a table at the front lay Ivan Nikiforov, encased in the wooden box where he'd one day rot. 

The pastor spoke joylessly and passionlessly from a scribbled fact sheet that got Viktor's age wrong. He delivered some standard words about how Ivan was with God now, and how he'd find peace. 

He couldn't find peace if he had a map, everyone in the room was thinking. Right from Katya, Viktor and Chris on the front row to the strangers in the middle, to Yakov who was glowering under his hat at the back after arriving ten minutes late. 

The sermon then moved to bible readings, the generic ones used at all funerals. The ones that assume that people are good and talk about god rewarding the righteous. The ones that talk about heaven. 

Nobody was asked to say a few words. 

No hymns were sung. 

No tears were shed. 

Everyone filed out onto the court yard in silence and with bowed heads. Rain was still trickling down miserably. 

Katya joined a group of faceless strangers who were assembling themselves under the porch, because apparently they were friends of hers. Viktor found that she blended in perfectly well with the people he didn't recognise. 

Also clumped together were a small group of broad, angry looking men. Viktor didn't recognise them exactly, but looking at them gave him a feeling. A feeling of cold nights and stale smells. Sticky carpets and raised voices. He figured they must have been his father's drinking buddies. 

He, Yakov and Chris assembled themselves in a far corner. They weren't  very well concealed - there weren't many people to hide from - but it was solitude they wanted, not invisibility. They stood in a triangle under a large tree, mostly dry but with the odd drip of bitter water trickling down someone's neck.

'Feeling okay?' Chris asked Viktor, folding his arms against his chest against the cold.

'No. Like shit. But could be feeling shittier.'

He ran a hand through his hair. 

Yakov pulled his hat down further over his eyes and huffed.

'Don't know that I could. That pastor was so... Dead. Wondered who's funeral we were at.' 

Three voices laughed drily. 

'Is there anything after this? Do you have to go and speak to people or..?' Chris asked. 

Viktor nodded. 

'Mama organised a food... Thing at the town hall. Just a cold buffet that nobody will eat.'

'I will,' Yakov mumbled, 'And you will too, both of you. Look after your bodies,' he said, waggling a finger that would have been stern if he wasn't so miserable. 

Viktor held up his hands in surrender. 

'Fair enough.'

Chris craned his neck towards where Katya was standing, waving her hands animatedly with her face set into a frown. He shuddered.

'I don't have to get up close and personal with your Mama again do I?'

Yakov snorted. 

'Poor boy. I've got my car. Shall we go before all the good sandwiches are taken?'

Viktor looked around, 'Hardly a hive of activity, is it?'

They piled into Yakov's car, still the same rattling little thing that had driven Viktor to his home of three and a half years on that cold night. Yakov and Chris loudly mocked the pastor to distract Viktor from the grey thoughts he was trying so hard to conceal.   
It was only working a little bit, but he was grateful. 

***

One of the red faced men approached Viktor at the town hall. He was bent over his plate of crust-heavy sandwiches and leafy salad, examining it carefully to avoid talking to anyone. It clearly wasn't working. 

Yakov and Chris had gone out for air, at Viktor's request. Before that, they had been surrounding him, a little safeguarding team, but they had both clearly been getting uncomfortable. Viktor had too, but simply couldn't have brought himself to stand. So he was alone when the hulking figure sidled up to him carefully, and sat down in the chair beside him. He blew out a breath.

'I'm sorry about your Dad, kid.'

Viktor tensed up, and shifted away from him slightly.

'Thank you. It's alright. But thank you.'

The man set his mouth into a line. 

'I don't know if you remember me...'

'No, I'm afraid I don't think I do.'

'I remember you.'

Viktor dropped a lettuce leaf into his mouth. 

'Do you?'

'Yeah. You were very small.'

He chewed, then swallowed.

'Was I?'

'Hmm... Very small and very frightened. I think your Dad frightened you.'

Viktor looked up at the man. His eyes weren't mocking, or belittling, but they weren't sympathetic either. They were curious. 

'Yes, you're probably right. If I was very small then my Dad probably did frighten me.'

There was a pause, the man shifted, and clasped his hands together, as though in anticipation. 

'Why's that?'

His eyes were shining.

Viktor shrugged.

'I didn't understand why he needed to shout so much,' then he decided to give the man what he so clearly wanted, 'I also didn't understand why he didn't like me.'

'I saw you in the papers, and I thought, "Is that the scared little boy from Ivan's house?" I wanted to know why you stopped being scared. You weren't scared when you were winning things.'

'No. I stopped being scared because I understood why my Dad didn't like me.'

'Why didn't he like you?'

'General personality. Also, I have sex with men. Good afternoon.'

Then he stood, and walked out of the room, leaving behind a plate of food, and a very shocked man. 

He caught Chris by the elbow by the door, who was clearly just about to go back in. 

'I think it'd be best to go now. Where's Yakov?'

Chris sighed like a drowning man.

'Thank the lord. He's already in the car. He was trying to subliminally send you hints... Clearly it worked.'

Viktor was feeling detached and a tiny bit pleased with himself on the drive back, until they drove past the funeral parlour. He tensed. 

Yakov frowned at him in the rear view mirror. 

'Alright?'

Viktor shuddered.

'That's my Dad in there.'

The car was silent. Chris and Yakov waited. 

'However shit he was... However much he hurt me, that's odd. And sad. God.'

Chris squeezed his knee. 

'That's okay. You're okay.'

'Not yet I'm not.'

'You will be.'

Nobody spoke the rest of the way home. 

***

Chris stayed at Viktor's flat that night. They dragged a mattress into the living room, and deposited a nest of blankets and pillows onto it. Macca curled up where Viktor was planning to put his head, but made a rather wonderful pillow. 

They watched crappy soap operas through the evening, then started on crappy rom coms, then crappy horror movies, and finished off with crappy musicals. Chris microwaved a ready-meal pasta bake for himself, and periodically fed Viktor small bites. He didn't suggest that he eat a full meal himself; however Viktor seemed to be invested in the movies, eating a proper dinner would have likely been a mammoth task. 

At two in the morning, the latest movie finished and neither moved to put another one on. Viktor shifted onto his side and pressed his cheek further into Macca's fur. He sighed.

'We doing that... Sleeping thing now?'

Chris shuffled under the blankets.

'If you want.'

The light was still on, but the prospect of darkness was intimidating. 

Viktor yawned.

'Goodnight then.'

Viktor stared at the wall and Chris the ceiling for what felt like millennia. They were both still and rigid, with Macca's heavy breathing and steadily rising and falling stomach providing the only stimulus. 

Viktor gritted his teeth.

The bathroom.

The hair. 

That's always where he ends up. 

Is it stupid?

Is it a stupid thing to associate his father with?

All he did was give him a haircut.

Should he really hate a dead man for that?

(Only it wasn't just the hair. It was every second of the build up. It was the tension at the   
dinner table, the too heavy touches, the jibes, the humiliation, the spectacle he was made of when he poured drinks for the red faced men, the glances, the poorly masked disregard, the lies about making him a better person, the short temper, the destroyed locker room, the empty bottles, the blackmail, the way he died with his shoulder pressed into a cut out of the son he didn't seem to love's face...)

'Chris, you still awake?'

Chris hummed. 

'Completely and utterly.'

Viktor sat up. Macca whined, but didn't wake up, just pawed a blanket towards himself and seemed to melt into it. 

'Can we go to the ice?'

Chris thought for a moment, then sat up beside Viktor.

'That sounds like an awful idea. Let's do it.'

Viktor had forgotten how much the rink echoed at night. 

The trees outside cast intricate vein-like shadows onto the ice. The overhead lights looked yellow when the rest of the world was dark, and the barriers somehow looked thicker.   
Viktor cast his eye over the bench that he'd called home for a couple of weeks, and smiled a sad smile. 

That was the beginning of something. 

It was the beginning of the life he had now. The wonderful life. 

Why did it make him sad?

He sat cross legged in the centre of the ice while Chris skated rings around him. He had his chin rested on his closed hands and was staring quite determinedly at the door. 

After a while, Chris wobbled to a stop, looking rather dizzy. 

'You not skating?'

Viktor shook his head.

'I can just... Breathe a bit better here.'

Chris nodded. 

'Fair enough. But I'm bored.'

He took Viktor's hands and pulled him to his feet. Viktor obliged robotically. Chris began to guide him around the ice, skating backwards and dragging him along as one would to a child. Viktor's arms were floppy and his legs rigid. His face began blank, but as they increased in speed, it relaxed into something closer to contentment. 

He let go of Chris' hands and began to advance on his own. Chris spun around so that he too was skating forwards, and they moved side by side. They were cutting through the air quickly, pushing their hair back in gusts. They were technically sloppy, but they were electric, unstoppable forces with no immovable objects to hold them back. While they were moving, Viktor almost felt better.

When they finally got back to the flat, just as the first shreds of daylight were beginning to peep over the horizon, Macca was unmoved. Viktor snuggled up in his soft body once again, and Chris lay beside him. 

'Better?" he asked breathily.

'Bit,' Viktor said determinedly, 'Thanks for indulging me.'

'Don't mention it.'

Surprisingly, they both dropped off to sleep, and that night, (or that morning,) Viktor's dreams weren't black. 

***

Viktor convinced himself he was fine for a long time, in the worst possible way. He equated functionality with soundness of mind. 

If he was moving, he was okay. 

He rose early and went to bed late, filling every second in between with a whole lot of something. 

Often, he'd be on the ice from sunrise to sunset and long after. He'd walk around the building even while eating, he paced around the flat while brushing his teeth, and he'd take Macca on metropolitan hikes around the city at ridiculous hours. 

Natasha had travelled to Moscow for a while for a change of scenery, so all of Yakov's instruction went into him and Georgi. The latter's work ethic waned as he moped over his latest lost love, and Viktor's did anything but. 

Yakov was worried, as he always was, but told himself that Viktor wasn't a vulnerable teenager bunking in his spare bedroom because of a dreadful father anymore. He was a fully grown man, with a flat and a dog and the dreadful father was no longer the concern of the mortal world. 

So, he followed Viktor's lead and coached with military precision. If something wasn't perfect, down to the millimetre, it was picked up on. Every jump could be higher, every step sequence tighter and every spin faster. Emotion needed to be slathered on like frosting on a wedding cake, and if the imaginary audience in Yakov's head weren't on the edge of their seats by the end, he had to do it again. 

Viktor lapped it up, and filed every harsh instruction away for use when he was alone in the rink. 

(It was fine if the voice in his head was someone else's. It didn't hurt.)

When he arrived at his usual, minutes post-sunrise time on his twenty-fifth birthday, rather than allowing himself some rest bite like Yakov had been expecting, he didn't question it. Viktor didn't mention what day it was, so neither did Yakov. The day ran like clockwork, the mechanical and precise stormy energy that Viktor seemed to be carrying settling in the air. 

Higher. 

Tighter. 

Faster. 

Chris' gift arrived in the post that evening (a gold encrusted collar for Macca, because, of course) and Viktor allowed himself to breathe for just a moment. 

Then, he decided to take Macca out for a run. His feet thumped along the pavement and Macca's paws padded along beside him. 

Higher.

Tighter. 

Faster. 

The intensive and relentless training seemed to be working, in a manner of speaking.   
Viktor breezed through Grand Prix qualifications that year with laughable ease. He was leaps and bounds ahead of his opponents (Chris included, who sat in a comfortable second throughout but was over fifteen points behind Viktor going into the final) and remained that way to the end. 

He set a Men's Figure Skating World Record with so much ease that it was almost hollow. Yakov had tears in his eyes that Viktor just couldn't replicate. 

He arrived home with a new shiny gold medal that would go in the drawer with the others. 

How quaint. 

Yakov's dormant anxiety that he'd been keeping behind closed doors and subdued reignited after the competition, when Viktor arrived at the ice like nothing had happened. 

He'd just set a world record and won a gold... He could relax. Yakov had been seriously hoping that he'd take some cool down time between seasons to collect himself, and that the burst of activity had been temporary and adrenaline fuelled. 

He told Viktor as much, and been cut off mid-sentence.

'I've got work to do. I'm not perfect, I'm never... Perfect. There's always something. I can't slip behind.'

'Go home, Viktor. Walk your dog, take a nap... Whatever. You've done all you need to do for a while,' Yakov said lightly, throwing his arms up in the air. (Georgi was glowering in the corner at having been given pretty much the opposite speech only minutes before. Dima had broken up with him the night before.)

'Please, Yakov.'

He said it with such fire, such conviction and such raw emotion that Yakov was almost taken aback. He looked at his student, and was puzzled by the desperation. Not to mention alarmed. 

He sighed.

'Go... I don't know, practice quads for a while if you're so restless. I'll have a think about what to do with you.'

Viktor released a breath that sounded strangely close to relief. 

'Thank you.'

They started choreographing Viktor's new programme that afternoon. 

His theme was "energy," which was ironic if nothing else. 

***

The first sign that something had to change was that for a while, Viktor was never not ill. He was always sneezing, and coughing and his eyes bleary and his nose running. His immune system seemed to have burnt out before he did, and ibuprofen became a constant companion. 

Yakov, as a result, found himself with frequent (if not permanent like Viktor's seemed to be) colds, and even Georgi was feeling the effects, because Viktor still turned up for fourteen hour days. He sneezed his way through programmes seemingly unaffected, and coughed his way off the ice nonchalantly. 

Eventually, through sheer stubbornness, he seemed to overcome this phase of illness.   
Apparently, even the pathogens realised they weren't going to get their way. 

The second sign that something had to change was a little more pressing. Some days, he couldn't get out of bed. Not, "I'm lazy and not a morning person, and my alarm clock fucking hates me" couldn't get out of bed. But dizzying, debilitating "my limbs are made of lead, and my chest hurts a bit, and I can't quite get my eyelids to open," couldn't get out of bed.   
Macca always noticed, which was a saving grace. The doggy kiss of life (a lick on the nose) usually roused him enough that he could claw strength from somewhere. He was usually about functioning after half an hour. A couple of times, he'd had to crawl to the bathroom because his legs just refused to do what he told them, but it was okay. 

It wasn't all the time. 

(Macca would beg to differ.)

The third sign that something had to change were the anxiety attacks. He sometimes felt like he was toeing his way along a tightrope, and all it took was a gentle breeze to derail him. 

It could be something as simple as the lights buzzing too loudly, or the ice shining too brightly, or his skates squeezing too tightly. Suddenly the colours would be too sharp, and the room too small, and he'd have to leave. 

If he was at home, it'd be better. He could bury his face in Macca's fur until the universe stopped shaking. 

It was harder at the rink. 

He'd gasp for breath on the floor of the tiny toilet stall, praying to a god he didn't believe in that nobody would walk in. There were no familiar smells, and no familiar breaths. It was all alien. 

Occasionally, he'd end up back in the bathroom with his father, his ponytail glinting in the low light. Not often though. 

Yakov had walked in once, with a horrible feeling he knew what was happening, but he hadn't wanted to confront it. 

Viktor is an adult and he's fine. 

The fourth sign that something had to change forced Yakov to admit that he was lying to himself.

***  
   
It happened at a late night practice, with just him, Yakov and Georgi in the building. Georgi had been threatened into attending, after spending the day glowering at his phone as opposed to working on his programme. The others had gone downstairs for a bite to eat, but Viktor had wanted to stay, as he often did. Everything was a little clearer on the ice. Or he'd thought it was. 

It was reminiscent of when he'd been young, driven and living at Yakov's house. 

Once again, he was on the ice, upright, aware and awake, and then all at once he wasn't. 

Except this time, he hadn't been moving, he was alone, and when he fell, he wasn't encased in foam.

He was encased in pain.

He'd been standing stock still in the centre of the ice, thinking about nothing in particular, and then his legs were gone and his head was on fire. It was like someone was pushing a red hot poker through his skull and waggling it around, reaching into every crevice and melting it into an acidic pool of grey matter. It was so hot that he vaguely wondered how it wasn't melting the ice. If he stayed there for much longer, he thought, with his head pressed against it, he was sure to fall through.

The ground beneath him was rolling, churning and tossing him around, but he didn't feel like he was moving, just stationary and nauseous. He was a rudimentary boat that had run out of gas in the middle of a storm.

The whole experience was one of confusion, still coupled with the white hot, horrible pain coursing through his skull. 

It was not the time for an anxiety attack, but alas, the forces were conspiring against him.   
His breathing sped up, and every breath was like a pin for which his head was a cushion. A probing, throbbing mess was travelling down his neck and into his spine, running down his arms and then into his legs. He was shaking and his eyes were no longer dry, tears dripping down his nose and splashing onto the ice. 

His pathetic body was a vessel for agony. 

He was a human bruise. 

He thought, 'I'm going to die here.'

And then he thought nothing.

***

That's how Georgi found him, limp and unconscious with his hair fanned out and dampened by his own tears. 

He hadn't been quite sure what to do because... It was Viktor. 

Viktor never fell. 

Viktor never failed. 

Viktor never even paused for breath. 

He couldn't be lying on the ice... It had to be something else. 

But he got closer, and realised that, yes, it most certainly was Viktor. And his skin was the same colour as the ice he was lying on, and his breaths were coming in rasps, and his purple eyelids were pulled over his eyes and showed no signs of moving. 

He decided to do what most people seemed to do in a crisis - he called for Yakov. 

Yakov felt that he now firmly fell into the category of 'too old for this shit,' and at the cries of an overgrown, notoriously hormonal teenager (who was comfortably in his twenties by then) he despaired, then ignored. 

But then, he heard Viktor's name, and his old heart crusted over with a deep and determined dread. He, of course, didn't know what had happened, or if Georgi had reliable judgement, or if anything had even happened, but he couldn't shake the feeling of "I should have known... I should have seen it coming."

As he strode towards the rink (a little more briskly than he'd like to admit for pride's sake) it was replaced by a much worse unshakable feeling of "I did know, I did see it coming but I chose to ignore it because he was winning."

Georgi was still leaning over the barrier, as though afraid to get closer and gesticulating awkwardly towards the middle of the rink. Like Yakov couldn't see the crumpled body and form his own conclusions as to why he'd been calling him. 

'Call an ambulance,' he muttered as he crossed him, making his way onto the ice.

'Are you sure? He... He could be-'

'QUICKLY.'

Georgi jogged towards his bag on one of the benches, as Yakov knelt down beside Viktor's head. His joints complained loudly, but there were more pressing matters. 

'This again, Viktor? You waited a while I suppose.'

Yakov was met with silence. He tentatively placed a hand on Viktor's thin shoulder.

'Come on,' he grunted breathily, 'Move for me, like you did last time.'

Nothing. 

Georgi was babbling into the phone in a high pitched tone, seemingly firing out syllables in the vague hope that some would register.

Yakov did something he hoped he'd never have to do. 

He picked up Viktor's limp and floppy wrist, and pressed two fingers into the soft flesh of the underside. The pulse was there, (of course it was, he just fell, and not to mention the fact that he's invincible) but thready. 

'See, you're fine. Just open your eyes.'

Viktor Nikiforov was a stubborn little shit. 

Yakov continued to whisper this, like a mantra, while Georgi kept what he apparently deemed to be a safe distance, until the ambulance arrived. 

He didn't wake up when the paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher, or when they pushed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. 

He didn't wake up as he was carted outside into the cold Russian air, or when he was carted inside into the back of the ambulance. 

He woke up for a second when it went over a speed bump, bleary and unaware and still in pain, with Yakov sitting beside his head. 

He grimaced down at him, with an expression that was probably meant to be reassuring.   
He grabbed a clump of his own grey and receding hair, and showed it to Viktor. 

'This? You. All you.'

Viktor promptly closed his eyes again, and wouldn't remember. 

Unlike the last time he'd fallen, he didn't wake up after a few hours. He slept right through the night, and the next day, and the night after that. 

Yakov came and went every few hours, to shower, and to get food, and to sleep, and to feed Maccachin, and to get some of Viktor's belongings. He kept his phone on loud, in case the hospital phoned him with any developments. 

Every minute was an hour, and an agonising hour at that. 

***

Viktor awoke very slowly after having slept through a night, a day, a night, and then another day. First, he opened one eye and surveyed the room through a slit. He was in hospital, of course he knew that, but he couldn't for the life of him think why. There were ripples along his compromised vision, and his ears were ringing out a high pitched litany. His head still hurt, but it was dull, more like the cotton wool pain of his first fall than the more recent hot needles. He was still horrifically tired, and his eyes slipped shut again before the rest of his functions could catch up.

A few hours later, he was awoken by a nurse attaching a blood pressure monitor to his upper arm. The rubbery surface was cold against his skin, and he recoiled into himself, blinking foggily at the figure above him. 

'Morning, sunshine,' the nurse smiled, 'Good sleep?'

Viktor made a noise somewhere between an affirmative and confusion. It had been good... It had been very good, but he still felt like he needed another week. 

The blood pressure monitor puffed up and he watched it numbly. The nurse took a reading, pursed his lips, then scribbled some numbers down as it deflated. 

'Long sleep... Very long sleep,' he said, slightly less cheerfully, 'We were beginning to get a bit worried. And if your coach wasn't bald when you came in, he most certainly is now.'

The right side of Viktor's mouth quirked up sloppily. He coughed a couple of times, wetly to clear his head, then struggled out a sentence. 

'He was. How long was I asleep?'

The nurse brushed off the chair next to Viktor's bed with one hand and perched on the edge.

'From what I've been told, you fell early into Wednesday night. It's now Friday... About half nine,' he flashed his watch in Viktor's direction for good measure. 

Viktor hummed.

'Hmm... Nearly bedtime then.'

The nurse chuckled.

'I told your coach I'd call him with any developments... I think we can let this one slide. I didn't see you,' he waggled a pen at him.

'He'll know... He always knows,' Viktor let his head fall back against the pillow. 

The nurse made for the door, then stopped and turned around. 

'Be prepared for an intervention in the morning. From some very reliable sources, and the evidence lain out in front of me in the form of your body, I get the impression that this was a long time coming. I'm going to be frank, you're not very well, and we've had to do a bit of... Shall we say, "chemical patching up." You could cut open a blood vessel and start a drug trade, to be honest.'

Viktor cracked open one eye. 

'I'm fine... I just got tired.'

The nurse smiled sadly.

'I think you and I both know that's not true, Viktor. And the people you love and who love you back are beginning to see that too. Bright and early tomorrow, young man.'

He shut the door gently behind him.

***

'I called Chris. Told him what you've done to yourself,' Yakov said the next morning, sipping a polystyrene mug of coffee at Viktor's bedside, 'Also told him not to get on a plane. He's probably on a plane.'

Macca whimpered, from where he was illegally stashed under Viktor's bed. The nurse from earlier had quietly assured them that his superior was on a training course, and that as long as he didn't cause a riot, it would probably go unnoticed. But of course, he knew nothing about it. 

'Yeah, see. Even the dog thinks so.'

Viktor reached a hand down to Macca's nose, and got a friendly lick in response.

'He's a smart boy. Perceptive.'

'Natasha's got a training... Thing in Moscow. She sends her love.'

'That's nice.'

Yakov stared down into his coffee. Viktor picked at a thread on the bed sheets. When Yakov looked up at him, it was with pained, heavy eyes. Viktor sighed. 

'I was fine...' his voice broke, 'I was sure I was fine.'

'You weren't though. You weren't fine at all. You're still not.' 

'Clearly.'

Yakov set his cup down on the small bedside table, and ran a thumb across his lips. 

'At least you're speaking in the past tense. That's something.'

'"Acceptance is the first step to recovery." That's what they say, isn't it?'

Yakov nodded. 

'The celestial "they." The faceless "they." The "I write therapy brochures and hide behind medical jargon," "they."'

'What, you don't agree then?'

 Yakov waved a hand in the air and tilted his head to one side. 

'I agree a bit, I just think they're missing a chunk.'

Viktor shut his eyes, and let his head sink into the pillow. 

'And what "chunk" would that be?'

Yakov put his knuckles to his lips. He inhaled deeply before answering.

'It's all well and good knowing you have a problem,' he said slowly, 'but you need to believe... That you're able to be, and worthy to be, helped. For as long as I've known you, and every time you've been struggling, you've hidden behind, "somebody else has it worse." That needs to stop. It will stop, won't it?'

Viktor opened his eyes, and met Yakov's.

'I'll try. I can honestly say I'll try.'

'Good. Look what happens when you don't.'

He gestured up and down Viktor's body under the clean sheets.

'For god's sake, Viktor,' he whispered, 'Ask for help.'

The doctor was scheduled to arrive to discuss Viktor's medical state in the next half hour. 

They let that statement hang in the air until then.

***

The doctor was a tall man, with rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose and an impressive shock of muddy brown hair haloing his head. His face was marred with dark lines, and the polite blankness in his eyes indicated that he was well vexed in the art of dealing with self destructive lunatics such as Viktor Nikiforov. He had been unfazed by the enormous poodle at the foot of the bed, saying, 'It's far from the oddest visitor I've seen,' which left Viktor with all sorts of questions.

He kept quiet. 

Yakov sat in the corner of the room, scrolling through his phone and pretending not to listen.

'Is he okay to be here while I talk to you?' the doctor asked. 

'I think it's advisable that I am. He's going to let me help from now on,' Yakov piped up without averting his eyes from his phone before Viktor could answer.

The doctor directed his gaze towards Viktor and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged and sighed. 

'Affirmative.'

'Alright then.' 

He stalked to the end of Viktor's bed, picked up the clipboard and began leafing through the notes. Yakov slipped his phone into his pocket. Viktor clasped his hands together.

'Right... Viktor. First things first, your blood pressure is not good. It's very very low, so we're treating it with fludrocortisone while you're here. You'll need to carry on with that when you get home. Good so far?'

Viktor nodded slowly.

'Secondly, you're rather malnourished. Your BMI - silly, I know, muscle mass and all that, these odd mathematicians, but alas it's a diagnostic tool the medical world simply loves - was below the "healthy" range, and according to these,' he tapped the folder of Viktor's notes, 'Your body mass has fallen rather spectacularly since you were last here. I know you don't see it on yourself... Sir, can you confirm?' 

Yakov blinked. 

Viktor's skinny arms during extensions. The flat expanse of his stomach when his tracksuit rode up. The way his pale cheekbones jutted out and glinted under the arena lights. 

'Yes... Now that you mention it...'

'So, we need a conscious effort to... What's that awful colloquialism they use in the West? "Put some meat on your bones." Agreed?'

Viktor nodded again. 

He was taking in the information blankly, the blur of the last few months settling over his eyes. He had been eating, he was sure. Or at least, he hadn't been trying to not eat. He must have been eating. He couldn't remember eating much. 

'Good... Thirdly, while we're on the subject of your last visit here, you came in with a bout of pneumonia and... Ah, what's this?' he tapped the page twice with his forefinger, 'severe exhaustion. Guess what we're suspecting this time?'

'Getting predictable am I?' Viktor muttered. 

'You certainly surprised me,' Yakov bit out. 

The doctor grimaced. 

'Predictability is the least of your worries. What's important is that it happened again. Let's not make a habit of this, shall we not?'

Viktor flattened his mouth into a line, 'We'll not.'

'Excellent. Line of attack, sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. We'll send you away with some knock out drops if need be. Now, when you came in, you were in rather a lot of pain. Remember?'

Viktor shook his head. 

The doctor nodded solemnly. 

'Suspected as much. Do you remember hurting when you fell?'

The red hot poker. The melted brain matter. 

'Yes.'

'Before you fell?'

The way his legs just weren't there all of a sudden.

'Yes.'

'That's something. Something good, if you can believe me. Take my word for it. We don't have an absolute diagnosis for this. It's likely an accumulation of migraines, cluster headaches, tension headaches, sinus infections, stress and all that lovely stuff that just sort of... Built up into this debilitating super-headache. Make sense?'

Viktor nodded slowly.

'We pumped you full of a lot of medication. Morphine, codeine, ibuprofen, and after that, they get double barrelled and you won't know what they are anymore. I'm not going to lie, withdrawal is not going to be a barrel of laughs.'

'Brought it on myself,' Viktor muttered. 

Yakov grunted. 

'Irrelevant, Viktor.'

'Recovery from this,' the doctor continued, 'Is going to be lengthy and difficult, simply because your body needs time to catch up, and you need to let it. You're going to be weak, probably a bit shaky, and very, very tired for a while. I understand that you live alone,' he stopped and pointed at Macca, 'Well... Nearly alone. It's advisable that you don't do that. For a while. Letting yourself be looked after is the only way you're going to get better from this.'

The doctor put his clipboard down slowly.

'A psych consultation is advisable, and on the end of a phone once you're discharged. I've said my piece now.'

He patted Macca on the head.

'I'll see about discharge forms, but don't hold your breath for a while. Health service...' he made a face, 'But I didn't say that.'

The door clicked shut behind him.

Yakov's phone chimed. He picked it up, and spoke nonchalantly.

'My spare bedroom is still nice. And unoccupied. Be good.'

Viktor didn't even try to argue. 

'Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.'

There was a silence while Yakov read whatever it said on his phone, then he snorted. 

'You're going to have to entertain yourself for a while. Idiot Swiss boy wants picking up from the airport.'

Viktor laughed under his breath. 

Yakov stood, and shrugged his coat on.

'Behave, young man.'

Then Viktor was alone. 

***

Chris entered the room like a hurricane on a path of destruction, arms weighed down by a hold-all, and about half a dozen large shopping bags. 

'Airports...' he said breathily, plonking the bags down in the corner of the room, 'Are FUN. I have no money left. But that's fine. I can live off duty-free chocolate and willpower. Now, my friend,' he perched on the end of the bed, and tickled Macca under the chin, 'You... are a fool.'

'He's aware,' Yakov said drily from the doorway, 'I'll take the dog back to mine. I think he's pushing his luck. Have fun, boys.' 

Yakov clipped Macca's lead on and tugged on his neck gently a couple of times. He let out a whimper of protest and nuzzled into Chris' thigh. 

'Go on, Macca,' he nudged his head, and he whimpered again, then huffed through his nose and licked Viktor's hand, before hopping off the bed. 

Yakov tugged him towards the door.

'Call me if they say you're free to go,' he lifted a hand and nodded, then backed out of the room, four paws padding along behind him. 

Chris lay back across Viktor's feet and sighed up at the ceiling.

Viktor smiled a small smile.

'You shouldn't have come, Chris.'

'What, not appreciating my sparkling company?' He thrust a dramatic hand over his chest as though mortally offended. 

'You shouldn't have come...' Viktor leaned forward, and placed his head on his fist with a condescending facial expression, 'Halfway across the world.'

Chris shrugged. 

'London's boring at this time of year. Not to mention wet.'

'You're in London now?'

Chris shot him a look out of the corner of his eye.

'You knew. I definitely told you. Too busy working yourself to an early grave to take it in, I suppose.'

He shot up, and dangled his legs off the bed. 

'And if we're playing the, "you shouldn't have done that" game, you shouldn't have neglected your body and made yourself ill. We even?'

He raised an eyebrow.

Viktor looked down at the bedsheets.

He held out a hand.

'We're even.' 

They shook on it. 

***

Viktor's head started to hurt again just after the discharge forms were signed, so the nurse packed him into Yakov's car high as a kite. 

'Behave, Mr Nikiforov,' he instructed through the window. 

He received only a docile hum in response. Viktor's head was lolling against Chris' shoulder in the back seat, and his face was limp with a sort of numb and intoxicated contentment.   
The doctor chuckled. 

'Don't worry... He will. I'll be feeding him for a while, so he'll have to,' Yakov said flatly from the front seat.

'Glad to hear it.'

As the car began to move, Viktor flopped down into Chris's lap with a groan.

'When did sitting up become so... Ugh.'

Chris swiped his long fringe out of his eye. 

'I won't answer that Vik, I think you already know when, and won't appreciate being reminded.'

Viktor only grunted, and buried his face in Chris' stomach. 

The road rolled along outside, while Yakov drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. After a few miles of silence, he addressed Chris.

'How long are you staying here?'

Chris shrugged.

'However long he's out of action,' Chris said, shaking Viktor's shoulder lightly, 'I can stay in his flat. And I wasn't going to compete this year anyway. All got a bit repetitive.'

Yakov frowned. 

'You're not?'

'Nope.'

'...oh.'

For a little while, the only sound in the car was Viktor's steadily deepening breathing. As they began to approach the familiar neighbourhood, Yakov spoke again.

'He asleep?'

Chris hummed an affirmative, peering down at Viktor's softly closed eyelids. 

Yakov glanced at the wing mirror to check, then took a breath.

'Don't tell him, but I've paid for Natasha to stay in Moscow for a little longer, and Georgi's going to Beijing for a while to be coached by Yuan-Ling.'

'Why?'

Yakov sighed. 

'He needs help. I can't be at the rink. Not until he's better.'

The car went over a speed bump, and Viktor slipped perilously close to the curve of Chris' knees. He reached under his ribcage and shifted him back up.

'I'm not disputing that... He will argue, you know?'

'I know. Just don't mention it until he asks.'

Chris nodded, with closed eyes. 

'Alright.'

There was another tight silence, before Yakov suddenly slammed his hands on the steering wheel. Chris jumped, but Viktor didn't even stir. 

'If it happens again,' Yakov gritted out, 'We could lose him. Lose him to his mind or... Something worse.'

Chris swallowed. The words had been swimming around his head for a while, and hearing them from someone else's mouth was like a punch to the gut. 

'I know.'

'That can't happen.'

'I know that too.'

Yakov sighed and put a hand to his forehead. 

'How do we make sure that doesn't happen?'

'That one... I'm not so sure about. I guess we watch... And we care.'

He looked down at Viktor's sleeping form, looking about as far from Russia's infallible golden boy as was possible, and as though the entire world was resting on his shoulders.   
He would watch.

And he certainly did care. 

***  
They ended up manhandling Viktor up the stairs, draped over Chris' shoulder with his arms dangling. He deposited him on the bed, on top of the sheets, and there he stayed until Chris poked him awake in the evening with a bowl of cornflakes.

Viktor struggled awake, and blinked blearily at Chris.

'You have to eat it, just so that I have an excuse to supervise you. Yakov has broken out the red wine and is getting reminiscent. Save me, for god's sake.'

Viktor shuffled up on the bed and took the bowl.

'Anything for you, my dear,' he said flatly. 

He shovelled a spoonful into his mouth and chewed slowly. It tasted like little other than mush. He made a face as he swallowed.

'Brave soldier,' Chris chuckled.

'And don't you forget it,' he drained some milk off a second spoonful in a slow trickle, then took another bite with a pointed expression, 'Mmm... nectar of the gods.' 

Chris smiled. It fell slowly. 

'...how are you doing?'

Viktor shrugged.

'I'm fine. I'm good.'

'Viktor.'

He sighed. 

'I'm tired.'

'Still?'

He took another mouthful, and chewed slowly. 

'I think,' he swallowed through a laboured throat, 'I've been tired for a long time, and am only now accepting it.'

Chris nodded.

'That's about the most sensible thing you've ever said. Which... let's face it... says a lot.'

Viktor snorted. 

'Harsh but fair.'

He poked around in the gloopy remains at the bottom of the bowl. Chris peered into it, and Viktor tilted it towards him with a raised eyebrow.

'I've been a good boy. Can I go to sleep now?'

Chris stood and shook his head. He clasped his hands together with an enthusiastic clap. 

'Nope... I'm bored. You're coming downstairs.'

Viktor groaned.

'Come on, you've been asleep all day. It'll do you good to have a few hours at least partially upright.'

He groaned again.

Chris took the bowl from his hands and set it down on the nightstand. He took ahold of Viktor's hands. 

'Come on. It's been... what? Half an hour? Yakov will be. Absolutely. Smashed.'

Viktor groaned once more. 

He swung his legs over the bed and swooned slightly. He leaned on his shoulder, and they stood together, Viktor's legs quivering a little underneath him. 

'Heard the one about his and Lilia's wild night in Barcelona yet?' 

Chris laughed, as they walked carefully to the door. 

'Don't believe I have.'

'You're probably about to.'

He laughed again.

Viktor spent the evening dozing quietly on the sofa, while Yakov regaled them with tales of his youth in a raucous tone smattered with profanity. Chris couldn't wipe the amused smile off his face for a word of it. 

It was very surreal, but not uncomfortable.

***

Chris was in a mother hen mood the first night, and slept on the floor beside Viktor's bed. He packed up his few belongings (mostly duty-free aftershave and Ferrero-Rocher) the day after, and kicked them into the corner of Viktor's bedroom. 

Putting  his things in someone else's wardrobe would have felt odd, even if they weren't exactly what you'd call strangers. He was used to living out of a suitcase, and found a certain comfort in it. 

The flat was mostly unoccupied during the daylight hours for a few weeks; Chris was either with Viktor or reacquainting himself with the city. It was his first foray there since Ivan's funeral, and the tone had changed. 

He wasn't sure what it was. 

The edges were softer... The colours more muted and the roads quieter. 

He wasn't sure if he was maturing - looking at the world through mellower eyes - or if something truly had shifted. 

Perhaps it was just the passing of time. The rotating and melting of seasons.

Viktor recovered determinedly, which had been expected. 

Whether intentional or not, people still looked at Viktor and saw the immortal golden boy. Even when his body weight was approaching minus numbers and the bags under his eyes stark against his ivory skin. 

He spent much of the first week at Yakov's house consuming sleep like a starving man, and after that, he began a strict regime of rehabilitation. 

He fell into a routine of setting an alarm for seven in the morning, then going downstairs for breakfast, which he would eat. Then, he would take a shower if his legs were working properly, and a bath if they were less so. At around eleven, his head would either begin to hurt or not, which would determine if it was A Good Day or A Bad Day. If it was A Good Day, he'd walk Macca slowly through the streets with Chris, or go with Yakov to buy groceries. If it was A Bad Day, he'd be able to do little but submit to the mercy of misfiring nerves. He'd lie on the sofa with a cushion over his eyes, getting about as high on aspirin as he legally could, and wait it out. Yakov would sit in the armchair leafing through a Russian epic. He'd concentrate on the soft sound of scraping paper instead of whatever his brain was doing. In the evening, Chris would join them for dinner, and either all three of them cooked or nobody did, and they'd gorge on takeaways. Olympic athlete diet plans were abandoned in favour of operation "let's not let Viktor keel over on the ice again."  
In short, the three of them (and Macca, of course) operated like an odd, dysfunctional family unit. 

It was exactly what Viktor needed. 

After about a week of a drugged up haze, and the exhaustion of allowing himself to be and feel, Viktor realised that Yakov was no longer going to the rink every day, and that Chris hadn't gone back to London yet. 

He broached the topic at the dinner table, while they were all tucking into lovingly (and fairly poorly, it they were being honest with themselves) crafted piroshki. 

Both simply nodded. 

'Smart boy,' Yakov said. 

'Observant.' Chris agreed. 

They both took another bite. 

Viktor blinked. 

Chris put his food down, and sighed. 

'For God's sake, Vik. Get those brain cells going. We're ready to go back to normal when you are.'

Viktor clasped his hands together tightly.

'You shouldn't have put your lives on hold for me. I could have managed.'

They both snorted. 

'Could you?'

Viktor pursed his lips. 

'Well... Perhaps not properly but-'

'But. Nothing,' Yakov said sharply, 'Eat your piroshki.'

He ate his piroshki, and the subject wasn't approached again. 

***

Viktor's twenty-sixth birthday was marked by a return to the ice. 

He arrived at the rink with skates in tow and a fire in his belly. 

"I will love this again," he told himself, "It will not destroy me."

He approached tentatively at first, and hovered by the barriers like he hadn't since early childhood. 

When he realised this, he growled in frustration. 

'It's alright Viktor. Don't beat yourself up,' Yakov called. 

'It's not,' he called back, 'I still want to compete this year.'

'Is that a good idea?'

he huffed out a heavy breath, and said rawly, 'I need to compete this year.'

Yakov saw Viktor crumpled in the centre of the rink and then limp on his sofa. He pushed the images out of his head.

"He's right," he thought, "He needs this."

'Okay. Just take it slow at first, then we'll see how much of your programme you can remember. No quads though. Only a few triples. Ease in.'

Viktor nodded, more vigorously than he'd intended. 

He began to skate in simple rings around the ice, drifting tentatively away from the barriers. He grew closer and closer to the centre, getting steadier as he went. Soon, he was gliding, and a youthful contentment was set into his features. 

He could do it. 

He could still do it. 

Chris watched from the sidelines, encapsulated. 

He'd forgotten what it was like to watch Viktor skate without the distortion of a camera lens, or a news anchor jabbering into a microphone. 

He was creating music with his body, a sonata of precise sharpness and anticipatory build ups. 

Every inch of his body was playing a part, from the gentle tilt of his chin to the artistry of his fingertips. 

Chris remembered being fourteen, and thinking, 'I want to compete with that.'

He remembered it well. 

He had a sudden, jarring moment.

Ah. 

That's what motivation is. 

He glanced at Viktor, who had colour in his cheeks and a little life in his eyes, and was doing what he loved. 

Yakov too, was yelling instruction and waving his hands melodramatically.

Normal service looked to have been resumed. 

He smiled. 

That night, he called Horace - his London coach - and told him he'd had a change of heart about competing that year. 

He had a programme ready within the month. 

It came second to Viktor's "energy" by only a few points, and Georgi took third under Yuan-Ling. 

He returned to Yakov for the next season, along with fresh blood. 

Mila was a feisty ball of energy, vibrant and unguarded. 

She was essentially what Natasha would become without the filters of self-deprecation and aloofness. 

Natasha had really found her feet in Moscow, and was even considering competing. Viktor maintained that it was his relentless prodding that had motivated her, and she deigned to argue. 

Yakov's other new student was Yuri Plisetsky, who was young, angry and hilarious.   
Not to mention incredibly talented. 

He should have cast a dark shadow over every room he entered, with his bowed head and sharp insults, but he had a strange warmth about him. His strange affliction to animal print was endearing, and every jibe that came from his mouth seemed affectionate. 

In short, he was simply asking to be mothered, which many people did. 

Viktor's life reached a high point, but something was still missing. 

'I'll find it one day,' he whispered to Macca one night, as rain drops hammered on the window.

***

Viktor arrived at the Sochi Grand Prix Final aged twenty-seven, with journalists snapping at his heels and camera men pursuing him like a criminal. 

He pushed his Gucci sunglasses up onto his nose, and smiled into every relentless flash. He charmed men and women alike, he kissed hands and cheeks, he gave vague answers, and my god did they lap it up.

It was exhausting to be wanted by everyone. Scrutinising, theorising eyes burned into his skull. 

"Rumoured ill health before last season..."

"Suffered a family tragedy..."

"How will he win..?"

"Will he retire..?"

It was enough to make his head spin.

He sat in the bar with Yakov and Georgi, the latter mooching in the corner as usual, and stared into an orange juice. 

'Do I have to win, Yakov?'

Yakov's shoulders tensed. He studied Viktor's face and frowned. 

'It'd be nice. Wouldn't it?'

Viktor sighed. 

'Yeah.'

He tapped his fingers on the table, and placed his chin on the closed fingers of the other hand. He loved winning, of course he did, he was only human. But if he won, there would be press conferences and publicity shoots and and more eyes and more voices. 

A hefty price to pay. 

Then, he thought of all the people who wouldn't dream of getting to where he was, and how many people loved to see him on top of the world with gold against his chest. How many people had his face plastered to their walls. 

He raked a hand through his hair. 

'Of course... Of course it'd be nice to win.'

He nodded twice, determinedly and vigorously. 

Yakov frowned again, then slid from his stool. Viktor watched curiously as he disappeared into the bustling throng of bodies. He returned with a bottle of Vodka and two shot glasses.

Viktor raised his eyebrows.

'Alcohol before a major competition? Will the real Yakov Feltsman please reveal himself.'

Yakov shrugged. 

'Call it celebratory in advance. You'd better win.'

The corner of Viktor's mouth quirked up. He poured himself a glass and knocked it back in one swift movement.

'I shall certainly try.'

Yakov took a shot himself. 

He grunted under his breath, as though struggling with himself. After a moment of internal conflict, he said lowly, 'I think you need to keep competing, Viktor. It keeps you... Good.'

Viktor dragged a finger thoughtfully over the table, drawing a swirly line into the thin layer of dust.

'Perhaps you're right.'

***

Viktor spent the night before his skate blinking up at a bleak ceiling. There was a fascinating coffee stain in the corner, and he wondered who exactly would get so angry that they'd throw coffee onto the ceiling. 

Then he thought that it was possibly a good method of stress relief. 

He considered trying it. 

He decided against it. 

His fingers drummed absentmindedly against his stomach. 

'This time tomorrow,' he said aloud to an empty room that stared back at him, 'Either everything will be the same, or I'll have failed.'

He shifted onto his side, and buried his face into the pillow. He sighed heavily.

'Which is worse?'

Logically, he knew. He knew he'd be destroyed if he lost, that the skating world would be shaken, and his record tainted.

But illogically, he felt like he'd been tiptoeing on a layer of dust above quicksand for a while. He wasn't sure he could continue. 

His ideas were running low. He wasn't angry anymore, wasn't sad, had nothing to say to the world. 

He'd skated his soul dry... Inspiration that he used to be able to pour out of a blade of grass on the lawn, or the bass line of a song now came in drips. 

He needed something to fill him up, something to warm him, something to make him feel. 

And that just wasn't happening. 

He flipped over onto his other side, and stared at the shadow of the pill bottle on the bedside table, silhouetted by the dull glow of a cheap lamp. 

The product of a psych consultation, capsules of what was largely sugar laced with something vaguely medicinal that had been essentially prescribed to tell him that his pain was something tangible. If you can see it, you can acknowledge that it's real. 

Half empty, the bottle was, because he clung to it sometimes.

The anxiety attacks had mostly gone away, but when they crept up on him, stalking through the long grasses ready to pounce, he needed to be reminded that his brain was misfiring. It was something real that was really happening. 

It wasn't his fault. 

(Yakov holding him after his first fall, when he was young and afraid, and didn't know what the future held.

'Not your fault, Viktor. Not your fault.')

He groaned into the pillow.

'I will always love skating.'

The bed creaked, as he flipped over onto his back.

'I want to love something else more.'

He fell into an uneasy sleep, just as the sun began to rise. 

Show time beckoned.

*** 

He remembered why he loved skating during his programme. 

The lights were warm against his cheeks. They cast a wonderful spectrum onto the ice, and he carved away some of the tightness in his chest through the colours. The cheers of the crowd were a dull roar, his hair pulled back and his arms extended elegantly. 

He was dressed in a rich costume, decked out to look like royalty, which he supposed, within the parameters of this competition, he was. 

He skated flawlessly, and made it to the end barely winded. There were people in the crowd more spent than him, through sheer hysteria.

Yakov caught him by the hip as he skated off the ice, and whispered, 'That was perfect.'  
He smashed his own world record, and felt a stab deep in his gut. 

It was a strange mix of "holy shit that was wonderful," and "holy shit I'm terrified." 

Immediately after the cameras were off him, he excused himself to the bathroom to splash water on his face and force himself to focus on the "holy shit that was wonderful."

While he was there, a promising young skater from Japan fell and jeopardised his chances of a stand on the podium.

By the time Viktor returned to the arena, the cameras had moved on.

He shared the podium with Chris once again, and Otabek Altin from Kazakhstan, a promising young skater with a cold passion. 

He smiled carefully into the cameras, flashing his gold so that it'd reflect just the right amount of light, and watched as flowers and gifts fell at his feet. 

This was what he loved. 

He was sure of it. 

He loved other things too, of course. He loved his dysfunctional little family, and his dog and his home. 

There was still something missing. 

A dormant feeling, that he couldn't place, nor could he fill up with gold medals. 

"What is it?" his brain asked, as people continued to beam and roar. 

"I don't know," he told it.

He held the medal up once more, for good measure. 

***

The banquet started off slowly. 

He met Chris' new coach, who was hilarious. He spoke like an amalgamation of every British movie actor of the last century, with an extra layer of self righteousness and ridiculous upper-class airs. He walked with an eighteenth century walking cane for no reason other than dramatic presence, and had rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose. 

He introduced himself as 'Horace, like Madonna,' with a horrific snort, and Viktor had to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from squealing with delight. Chris gave him a universally translatable look of, "I know," over his shoulder. 

He caught him by the elbow later that night, and asked him, 'Are you entirely sure that your coach is real?'

Chris laughed. 

'Its possible that we're collectively hallucinating. I'll get back to you.'

Other than that, Viktor spent the next two hours being patted on the back and thrust in the direction of sponsors. He shook lots of manicured hands, and signed napkins for people's teenage offspring.

He was getting bored. 

Very, very bored. 

Then things started to get interesting. 

Throughout the evening, Katsuki Yuri, a skater from Japan who had apparently messed up his programme, had been getting quietly and steadily drunker. 

All of a sudden, he wasn't being quiet anymore. 

He was staggering out into the centre of the dance floor, with flames behind his eyes. 

He stopped for a moment, and tilted his head towards the ceiling, as though waiting for a flash of... Something. 

Then, he was dancing, all strong limbs shaking with intoxication. He was shouting challenges to anyone who would listen, and people were. They were listening.   
He was dancing with skaters from South Korea, and America, and Canada, skaters of 16, and skaters of 29, and even Yuri Plisetsky, who was moving like he didn't know how to stop. 

He was dancing with Chris, clothes off and legs wrapped around a pole. Bare skin against shiny metal. He was upside down and bent in impossible positions. He was inhuman, he had to be inhuman. He had to be more than human. 

All the time, Viktor was watching. 

Intoxicated. 

Enthralled. 

Unable to look away.

Then, the young wonder was clinging to him, blind drunk and radiant, all dark eyelashes and deep, damp eyes. 

And he was asking him to be his coach, to go back to Japan with him, to stay in his parents' fucking hot springs resort of all places, with the most open and raw expression that Viktor had ever seen. He felt like the breath had left him. He felt a hundred degrees. 

And then, my god, that ethereal creature was dancing with Viktor. They were spinning around the room like a whirlwind, unstoppable and powerful. They were long legs stretching towards the stars, and sharp turns and hot, hot passion. They were melting into one another, becoming a single entity. Katsuki Yuri was messy, and uncoordinated and boundless, and so, so beautiful. 

They stopped moving when there was a break between songs, and the people around them must have been making noise, must have been saying something, but Viktor couldn't hear them. 

All he could see were the deep brown pools of eyes, and all he could feel was skin against skin and it was electric.

His heart was pumping in a way that it never had before and...

Ah. 

That's the feeling. 

***


	2. Post-Yuri

Viktor danced with the beautiful boy until the sun came up, and the skater from Thailand came with half closed eyelids to steal him away. 

Left alone, with only the crumbs on the buffet table and the streamers on the floor for company, he put his head between his legs and had one fucking hell of a panic attack.  
He curled up on his side and hyperventilated until his vision dipped and he was falling through the floor. Tears dropped down his nose onto the floor and splashed into a little pool. The room was spinning like a carousel, and he could feel the weight of absence crushing his chest. 

He could see brown eyes, and strong thighs, and feel warm skin and hear desperate, slurred whimpers. 

He could see beauty.

He could see danger. 

He could see his ponytail in the sink.

He started to laugh. 

'I'm in love, Dad,' he gasped to the sky.

'How do you like that? I'm. In. Fucking. Love.'

He was twenty-seven years old and he felt complete for the first time.

Something enormous had changed; his options were no longer fail or slog on. 

He had incentive... the chance of freedom.

He was really, really scared. 

He was really, really elated.

 

***

The first person he told about Yuri wasn't a person. 

It was Macca, of course. 

He whispered into his fur a few weeks later, when he'd finally put the events into order in his head that he was in love, he was confused, and he wasn't sure what to do. He felt like a ridiculous teenager, smitten and immature, but he felt entitled because he hadn't had the opportunity to be a smitten teenager when he was younger. He'd spent his teenage years either skating, being stared down at the dinner table or later, on the top of a podium. 

'What should I do, Macca?'

Macca just looked at him softly with sympathetic eyes and licked him on the cheek. 

Viktor leaned back against the sofa. 

He twisted his fingers around the soft brown curls, and sighed down at his companion. 

'We're both getting old, puppy. Perhaps we could retire together. I'll stop skating and you'll... Take shorter walks. We can get properly old together.'

He took a moment to imagine himself at eighty, in a nursing home wrapped up in a tartan blanket with Macca curled up at his feet. Because Macca was simply never ever going to die. 

'I can't keep competing, not like this. Not now that I've felt... That. Now that I've felt alive.'  
Macca seemed to nod solemnly. 

'Skating became flat... Do you get it? I've felt something meaningful, and now nothing else will do Except...'

He let his head flop down onto Macca's belly again.

'He's in Japan. Fucking Japan. And I can't just turn up in Japan and say "you made me feel like the world was in colour for a few hours and I need you to stay with me forever."'

He lifted his head, and smiled wetly, at the memory of the wonderful, messy night. 

'He asked me to be his coach,' he giggled, 'At a hot springs resort. Was he serious? He was so drunk, my god, and so glorious.'

He wrapped his arms around Macca's body and dropped him onto his stomach, his weight comforting. 

'So I can't go to him, and I can't keep going here. What do I do?'

Suddenly, his phone chimed once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

Four. 

He shifted his hips up and pulled it out of his back pocket. 

Two from Chris, one from Natasha and one from Yuri P, of all people. 

Three video files and one text, from Chris.

//"IT'S NAKED BANQUET BOY!!!!"//

Viktor's functions stopped. 

All of a sudden, he was suspended in concrete. 

He pressed play. 

It most certainly was naked banquet boy, and he was skating. He was creating art with his body, moving in brushstrokes and symphonies and melodies and paint splatters. The performance was rough around the edges but refined and mature, and breathtaking. 

It was also Viktor's.

Yuri Katsuki, the beautiful, intoxicated, destroyed skater who had numbed himself with alcohol and made a living legend feel like he was surfacing from deep water for the first time was skating Viktor's piece. 

He watched it four times, and Macca watched him. 

Suddenly, things didn't seem so complicated anymore. 

He most certainly could turn up and say 'You made me feel like the world was in colour for a few hours and I need you to stay with me forever.'

And that's precisely what he was going to do. 

*** 

He called Chris, thanked him for sending the video, and told him he was moving to Japan off the back of it. 

Chris spluttered on the other end. 

'Whoa... Whoa. Wow.'

He laughed breathily. 

'Are... Are you?'

'Yeah.'

It was Viktor's turn to laugh. 

'Why?'

'Because I'm in love.'

Chris made a knowing noise. 

'I thought you might be. At the banquet you were... I don't know... It was like someone had put an electric current through you.'

'That's what it felt like.'

'Are you... Really though? Really really?'

'Really really.'

Chris laughed again, this time incredulously. 

'Okay. Who are you going to be training under.'

'I'm... Not.'

'You're not?'

'I'm coaching.'

'Coaching?'

'I'm coaching Yuri Katsuki. He asked me to at the banquet.'

'Viktor, he was blind drunk.'

'He was blind drunk and he meant it. I know he did.'

There was silence on the line for a long moment. 

'Viktor you are an enormous, impulsive, reckless fool. I hope he makes you very happy indeed. I had his ass in my face for a while at the banquet. It was very nice.'

'Thanks, Chris. How do you think I should greet him?'

'Naked.'

Another silence, this time thoughtful. Chris sighed. 

'Joking, Viktor.'

Viktor huffed. 

'Don't rain on my parade. I've got a flight to book.'

'Alright, you weirdo. At least pack underwear.'

'I'll consider it.'

They rang off with a click.

***

Yakov tried to stop him from leaving, of course he did. 

'If you walk away now, you can never come back.'

He didn't mean it, he'd always welcome Viktor with open arms. They still weren't conventionally close, and the times they'd hugged could be counted on one hand. But if they were being honest, both would fight to the death to defend the other. 

How could Yakov not want to protect him, the scared teenager in his spare bedroom, and later, the adult who felt too much of the world on his shoulders and broke. 

The words he spoke were weightier than they first seemed. 

"If you leave now, you won't be competing again, and I'm still scared that you'll fall back into yourself."

Viktor turned around and smiled. 

'Dasvidaniya.'

And true to his distant, unflinching loyalty, Yakov ended up driving him to the airport. He watched the plane take off angry that he'd lost his best student, and terrified that he'd lost Viktor. 

He decided to channel his emotions into the former. 

***

Japan had a funny smell. Viktor was glad he had the familiarity of Maccachin's fur to bury his nose into. 

It smelt different to Russia... It was stuffier, despite the unusual snowfall that Viktor told himself he'd brought with him. It was probably the sheer volume of people; in Russia, the people tended to be a hell of a lot more dispersed, due to the enormous surface area. Japan was stifling. People were packed around him constantly, elbows in his ribs, hands on his thigh, foreheads pressed into his back on public transport. 

It was beautiful though. 

Everything was clean, especially dusted with the icing-sugar snow. There were trees in soft pastels and muted buildings. Vending machines in neons, flashing lights, and more unnecessary gadgets attached to the toilet than Viktor could have ever begun to imagine.   
He decided that on first impressions, he loved Japan.

Though he was so smitten, he probably loved everything. 

He spent a few hours just walking, getting his bearings, listening to the language, and feeling the new air on his cheeks. 

'Home,' he whispered out over the roaring sea. It lapped against the concrete of the barrier, licking towards his feet. Macca whimpered, and he ruffled his fur with one hand and buried his soft head into Viktor's thigh.

'Right... No time to waste I suppose.'

Yuri's family really did have a fucking Hot Springs Resort, which delighted Viktor beyond belief when he approached. 

He'd half thought that it was drunken babbling, and that he'd have to hone his detective skills in order to find him, but no. There it was, in its ridiculous fairytale glory. It towered over the landscape, looking completely alien to Viktor, but exuding a strange sort of warmth and familiarity. 

He knocked on the door twice. 

Macca seemed to be vibrating with excitement beside him. 

The door was opened by a soft looking, middle aged man with a warm smile and round glasses. He had a small, sheepish smile on his face, his eyes scrunched up and shut with quiet politeness. 

'Good evening. How may I help you?' he asked in English.

Viktor shuffled quickly from foot to foot, then applied his best "I'm a confident, competent member of society who can charm the pants off anything with a pulse," face.

'Hello there-'

The man's eyes snapped open, and he gasped, a hand flying to his mouth. Viktor stopped and frowned. He had realised getting recognised was a slim possibility but... Really? In Japan? By a hot springs owner?

'I do apologise, is something wrong?'

'No, no its nothing. Just... Your face looks... Familiar. And your voice... Especially your voice... Have we met?'

'No, I don't believe we have.'

'Oh... I'm sorry, I just can't place you.'

'It's quite alright. Do you have a spare room?'

'Certainly.'

'Excellent.'

'A single, Sir?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

'Please, do come inside.'

They stepped in, Macca trailing at Viktor's feet. He scraped his feet along the mat to remove some of the snow.

'While I sort your room,' said the man, 'Would you care to try the hot springs? Very lovely this time of year; like a light in a dark room.'

Macca was running circles around the man, who seemed delightfully unfazed.

Viktor smiled. 

'Sounds wonderful.'

***

Sitting in a hot spring with snow falling is a surreal experience. It felt to Viktor like the ultimate contrast, like burning ice. It felt rather like ignorance, getting hot while the weather was telling him that he should be cold. 

The snow reminded him of Russia, and the warmth of things to come. 

He ran his elegant fingers down his ivory skin, watching little droplets pool at his elbows and drip down into the water with tiny splashes. He let out a sigh, and tipped his head back against the side of the pool. 

'Home,' he breathed. 

As he lay there, with snowflakes raining down above him, he shut his eyes, and allowed himself to watch the beautiful, intoxicated man on the back of his eyelids. 

The way he moved as though fire was licking at his arteries, the way he seemed to leave dashes of colour hanging in the air every time he changed position, the way the room seemed to be at his mercy, curling around him to create the perfect backdrop as opposed to the other way around. 

The exquisite stretching of his fingers, the lyricism of even his drunken staggerings, the strong curves of his thighs as they wrapped around the pole, whole body exuding confidence and allure. 

His deep, damp, treacle eyes staring up at Viktor with a vacant, inebriated admiration and desperation as he clung to his waist. The warmth of skin against skin. The electricity of body against body. 

The way he made Viktor gasp to an empty room that he was in love, after having felt a full and complete spectrum of feeling for the first time in his life. 

How messy and rough and raw and breathtaking he'd been skating Viktor's routine. How even through a screen his body had been gasping for polishing and instruction and... Attention. 

The damp rag weighed heavily on Viktor's skull as he sunk further down into the water. 

"I'm going to see him," the thought giddily, "I'm going to see him and I'm going to be his coach, and we're going to get married and have lots and lots of beautiful children."

He almost laughed out loud. 

He really was reduced to a slobbering teenager; planning marriage to a man who'd essentially grinded on him blind drunk. 

He imagined greeting Yuri at the door, with Maccachin in arms. He imagined buying him dinner under a fake name and surprising him with open arms. He imagined confronting him at the rink, and making his intentions of being his coach professionally clear - he was an adult after all. 

All that was abruptly cut short at the sound of a door being flung open and skidding feet. Viktor gulped. 

The fleeting love of his life was standing on the sideline, looking as though he'd walked in on extra-terrestrials having a passionate valentine's night. 

He was wearing about fifteen layers, and a pair of glasses were balanced on his nose, and his cheeks were tinted red, and he was as beautiful as Viktor remembered him.

His plans for a perfect introduction were destroyed, but he could deal with that. He was Viktor Nikiforov, five time good medalist, king of thinking of replies to asshole journalists in record time and world's most eligible bachelor. 

He could make a lasting impression. 

It was rather helped by the fact that he was as naked as the day he was born. 

He stood up unapologetically, feeling the icy breeze on his skin, and held out a hand like an Edwardian duke for dramatic effect. 

Yuri paled considerably. 

'Yuri... Starting today, I'm your coach.'

Keep it brief... No room for interpretation. He was doing this, he had to do this, and Yuri wanted him to do this. Or had, after about eleven glasses of champagne. 

'I'll make you win the Grand Prix Final.'

Yes yes... Bold claims can get you far in life. Excellent. Sterling. 

Now what?

Now what?

Ah, of course. 

A wink. 

Perfect. 

Viktor watched as Yuri blinked once, then twice. His eyes widened. 

Viktor was rather hoping for a kiss. 

Or at least a reply. 

Yuri promptly bolted for the door. 

Viktor's face and outstretched hand both fell. 

***

He texted Chris almost immediately.

//"Met him. Wow."//

//"YOU DID THE THING???? DID IT GO WELL????"//

//"He literally ran away."//

//"Shit. What did you do??"//

//"..."//

//"YOU DID NOT MEET HIM NAKED??"//

//"..."//

//"VIKTOR???"//

//"Not... On purpose."//

//"!!!!!!!!!!!!"//

//"Can't imagine what went wrong."//

//"There are... Literally no words."//

In hindsight, Viktor tended to agree.

***

He didn't remember. 

He didn't remember. 

He wasn't serious and he didn't remember and he didn't want Viktor there. 

His head was spinning, and he staggered out if the hot springs exuding none of the confidence or elegance that audiences saw from behind their screens. 

Luckily, the lobby was empty, save for Macca who was curled up in the corner on top of what looked suspiciously like a pile of clean laundry. 

Viktor plopped down next to him, and rested a hand on his belly. He carded his fingers through the soft fur.

'I'm a bit of an idiot, Macca.'

He barked sympathetically, and lifted his heavy head up to drop onto Viktor's lap. The edge of Viktor's mouth quirked up ever so slightly, and he ruffled his ears.

'What's it like, being like... A good ninety per cent of my impulse control? Which is bad, considering you operate solely on the basis of who's holding the biscuits.'

Macca just whined. 

Viktor's plans for the next portion of his life were sunk, and had no idea what came next, so he did the first logical thing that popped into his head and went for dinner with Yuri's mum. 

Because what else is there to do in such a situation?

Over the food, the delightful lady (who simply radiated warmth and hospitality - Viktor thought about Katya, with her distant looks and vague text messages, and considered asking Hiroko to adopt him) told him about her son. 

About his skating, and his enormous smile, and how he'd had a dog too, 'Like yours, but smaller.'

About his ballet lessons, and how cute he'd been as a child, and how well he'd done to complete college while competing.

About his Viktor Nikiforov posters, and his Viktor Nikiforov skating supplements, and about every ridiculous Viktor Nikiforov endorsed product she'd ever had to buy. 

About how many times he'd talked about how incredibly, breathtakingly, intoxicatingly wonderful it would be to be coached by him. 

Viktor was, as a result, incredibly confused, so did what he always did when he was confused... Acted impulsively. 

He bulk bought every item of furniture he could see that cost more than it should, and ordered for it all to be delivered to the inn by the close of day. 

As a final thought, he also ordered for every costume he'd ever worn in competition to be delivered to the inn too. 

He could wait longer for those... Just a bit. 

After that, still wrapped in nothing but a robe, he decided that if he was going to start a new life here in Hatsetsu, he was probably best to start on the right foot. So, he did something he was very unaccustomed to... He listened to his body. 

Solely because he was tired, not because he had practice in a few hours and was on his third day choking down caffeine pills, or because Yakov had told him to, he curled up with Maccachin (on the floor, which is less than advisable, but with Viktor, victories have to be counted and rounded up) and went to sleep. 

As he was drifting off to sleep, he told himself that he was going to be confident, living legend Viktor Nikiforov when he woke up, and not flesh and blood Viktor Nikiforov.   
That's what Yuri wanted, after all. 

***

Viktor woke up on the floor, with the man who'd changed his life looming over him, and remembered that the new Viktor was going to be confident, suave, ruthless if necessary, and listen to his body. 

His stomach growled, so he ate a pork cutlet bowl (which felt like a cathedral hymn on his tongue... A sensation of pure and unyielding delight he'd deemed impossible to get from food) and talked skating with Yuri and his mother. Because he's a professional adult now and professional adults do that stuff. 

He hated it. 

He hated telling Yuri what was wrong with him, and what would have to change, and how he'd only coach the perfect student. He hated seeing Yuri's eyebrows drop and his face melt into numb disappointment. He especially hated the dull glaze that fell over his eyes.   
He decided that there was more than one way to be an adult. 

So, he took Yuri into the unused banquet hall that was to become his home. As his old ballet teacher had told him, it was cluttered with boxes, piled floor to ceiling. Viktor's new life was in those boxes... He was now made of only impulse buys, and the familiarity of his dog, and the lingering feeling of skin on skin at the banquet. 

He sat him on the floor, and asked him questions to which he didn't get an answer, and tilted his chin up with his fingertips until he could feel his soft breaths on his nose. He felt the robe slip from his shoulder, and didn't move to adjust it. 

"Sexy Viktor," the universe decided he was to try next. Who was Viktor to argue?  
He gazed at him with the icy, sensual eyes he'd used to seduce the world, and lowered his voice to that of velvet. 

He whispered in his ear something about trust... About their relationship... About how they needed to know everything about each other. 

Yuri promptly scrabbled away, and bolted to his bedroom. 

Viktor sighed, disheartened. 

"This is my life now," he wanted to scream, "You made me feel alive... Tell me how to let you do that again."

He toned down full-frontal nude, overly suggestive Viktor, but kept the fringes of sexy Viktor in one final attempt later that night.

'Yuri... Let's sleep together,' he yelled through the door, Macca sitting obediently next to his heel. He chose that phrasing carefully, so that Yuri could take it how he pleased. If he wanted it to be platonic... A building of relationship between a prospective coach and his prospective student then it could be, and if he wanted to rip his clothes off and make him forget his name, then Viktor certainly wasn't going to argue. 

On receiving silence, Viktor tried the more PG, tamer route. 

'As your coach, there's still so much I need to learn about you.'

'NO!' 

Okay... So softly softly wasn't working. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

'Yuri...'

Nothing.

'Yuri...'

More nothing.

'Yuri...' He trailed off.

Nothing was working. Apparently, nothing was working. 

Viktor could feel him leaning against the door, painfully close, painfully out of reach, and it was utter agony. It was as though he were on the precipice of co-dependency... Rather he needed co-dependency, and he was about as close to physical intimacy as he could be, but Yuri just wasn't letting him in... Literally. 

Viktor felt the slings and arrows of being put on a pedestal piercing his skin, and had to physically work to drag himself away from the door. 

It was like he was Velcro, he struggled to get distance, but once he was in his room, with Macca snuggled up beside him as though nothing had changed, he felt the distance as though he was still in Russia, and Yuri was still holed up in his bedroom precisely where he was now. 

The air in the room felt heavy. 

But he was in Japan, and closer to the source of colour in his existence than he'd been for a night's sleep before. 

So nothing else was going dark. 

Not that night. 

The next morning, Yuri seemed to have had an epiphany. He still looked at Viktor like he was going to start breathing fire and searching out civilian blood any moment, but he was willing to learn, and willing to work. 

In short, he looked at Viktor like a coach he was terrified of, not a stranger he was terrified of. 

Viktor took this as a victory. 

He shouted happily to a man fishing on the bridge as he cycled past, Yuri jogging and gasping just behind him. 

At Yuri's home skating rink that was to become his too, he was looked at like a deity, and Yuri like an undeserving mortal. 

Viktor decided that it was to be his goal to make people see them on the same level. 

Even if that meant lowering himself. 

***

Hiroko, subject to her wonderfully (if at times misplaced in nature) optimistic personality was delighted at the onslaught of over zealous journalists ripping their clothes off and diving into the hot springs. 

In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea for Viktor to post his location; in his bubble of attempted Yuri-seduction, he'd almost forgotten that anyone outside of the two of them existed, but alas... The paparazzi would always be there. It was, in a way, better that they'd found him by his own actions. If they'd found out alone, it would have been a scandal.   
He could see the headlines. 

"Russia's hero flees homeland to peruse mystery man."

Instead, he was making an informed career choice, and being unapologetic about it.   
That's what he told himself anyway, when it was the third night and he was still pining at Yuri's door with a pillow tucked under his arm like a vagrant.

On the bright side, he was eager to be coached by Viktor, and spent a week relentlessly and determinedly training. He spent hours spinning and stretching at Minako's dance studio, and hopped on and off benches like his life depended on it. 

And slowly, he was beginning to look Viktor in the eye, to let his arm brush against his side, and to bridge the gap between them. 

Just slightly.

Viktor was hesitantly rejoicing.

A surprising face to see in Hasetsu was that of Yuri Plisetsky. 

Less surprising was that he'd acted out of mirth, impulse and anger, and that his plan for finding Viktor was to turn up unannounced as a minor in a city he knew nothing about and periodically yell his name. 

Whatever gets results. 

Viktor, in truth, saw a lot of himself in Yuri, and had drawn his own conclusions about where on the Grand Prix podium he was going to end up one day. 

He glimpsed him out of the corner of his eye while swanning around the ice crafting his arms into elegant positions and waiting for Yuri Katsuki to arrive. It was the programme he would have done next... Would have dragged himself through if he hadn't met Yuri at the banquet. It was a scary thought but he powered through, imagining himself in someone else's body. 

'Yuri! I'm surprised Yakov let you come!'

He knew as well as anyone that Yakov most certainly had not let him come, and was inclined to think that perhaps Yuri was acting only to spite him, but something in the back of his mind told him that there was another reason that he should have known about. He pushed it to the back of his mind, but then Yuri growled. It was from the back of his throat and somehow managed to be mildly exasperated. He'd heard it come out of a fair few mouths before. 

He made a deduction. 

'Judging from that look, I'm guessing I forgot some promise I made.'

Yuri just growled again. Other Yuri, (who he was mentally referring to as "his" Yuri,) looked very confused. 

Angry Yuri grabbed his forearm and dragged him off the ice in one swift movement. He was strong for a pre-pubescent fifteen year old.

For fifteen minutes, Viktor was barked at about a rash promise he made when he was twenty-four, numb and going through the motions of functionality. Apparently, he'd agreed to choreograph his programme if he won gold at the Junior World championships without using quads. He had absolutely no recollection of it, and laughed this rather worrying fact off.

Neither Yuri was amused. 

Angry Yuri finished his (in all honesty, fair) reprimanding of Viktor by demanding he return to Russia, which chilled Viktor to the core. 

More of the same bleak scenery. 

Stiff convention. 

Monochrome. 

Leaving behind his lighthouse on the rocky shore. 

Looking over to his Yuri, he felt something warm in his stomach when he realised that he looked just as devastated as he did. It probably wasn't the time to be praising himself on his seduction tactics, but it at least motivated him. 

He proposed a competition, in which they would skate an arrangement each of his short programme, and the most surprising would win. 

He failed to mention that he was so smitten with Yuri Katsuki that he could probably make Viktor fall of his chair by pouring the milk with the opposite hand, but he was allowed to be biased, he told himself. 

New Viktor listened to his body, his heart was a part of his body, and it was telling him that Yuri Katsuki was the only thing worth living for. 

The rather terrifying triplets whose mother owned the rink elected themselves chief organisers, and Viktor began to feel something bubble up in his stomach. 

The rush of competition... It was refreshing to be on the sidelines. 

***

Back at the inn, Viktor sipped red wine while Yuri inhaled a pork cutlet bowl, flecks of sauce colouring his cheeks like paint splotches. Mari dubbed him "Yurio," which everyone except him thought suited him. Viktor giggled while Yurio glared, tipsy and warm with the euphoria of actually being excited about a completion for the first time in a while. 

Later that night, Viktor fell in love a little bit more, watching Yuri create brushstrokes with his body once again surrounded by the people who'd watched him grow. 

He learnt about his lonely perseverance. How he'd struggled to make friends, so learnt from the voice in his head, and how he'd only been able to flourish because of having breathing space. How he hated losing. 

He knew now... He truly needed to crate magic, and he was most certainly going to do that. He was in too deep now to ignore any rogue suggestions his brain threw up. 

'Magic, Macca,' he whispered. Macca wagged his tail excitedly. Viktor giggled. He was excited too. 

On the first official day of training, Viktor stood before Yuri and Yurio with the two compositions of his free skate piece.

The first: Agape. Unconditional love. Maccachin's fur and the mug of tea left outside his door after a nightmare, and Hiroko's smile, and his head in Chris' lap after his stint at the hospital. Innocent love. The love of people who could be relied on... soft... warm... quiet.

The next: Eros. Sexual love. Film noir, and what the night with Chris would have been if there was anything more, and Yuri's thighs on the pole and Yuri's skin against his. Passionate love. Intense love. Loud love. 

He watched with amusement as Yurio, the child who he'd seen hug his Grandpa in the car parks and gorge on homemade food like it was crafted by the gods sniggered at the Agape arrangement. 

He very nearly laughed out loud at the mildly affronted, uncomfortable expression on the face of Yuri, the drunken pole dancer who'd seduced the "world's most eligible bachelor" in a matter of minutes, as he listened to the suggestive Eros arrangement. 

It was with glee that he announced who would be skating what, and it was with even more glee that he registered that they were both going to put their hearts and souls into it.   
He skated both routines, with as much detachment as he could muster, he needed them to be able to pour themselves into the routine; he didn't want carbon copies of himself.   
Yuri admitted that he lacked self confidence, which greatly saddened Viktor who knew how captivating he could be once his inhibitions were strewn on the floor like the clothes he shed, but he remained stoic. 

He coached told Yuri that he'd coach Yurio first, and in a moment when "sexy" Viktor clawed to get out and couldn't silence himself, he staked between Yuri's legs and pressed his thumb to his lip. He whispered that he needed to find his true Eros. And in truth, hoped to god that it was him.

***

Yurio was more perceptive than he let on, and in a break from training, sitting on the floor behind the boundaries of his ice with his eyes still glued to his phone, he asked in a bored, dejected tone, 'So have you fucked him yet?'

Viktor choked on his water. 

He spluttered around his own saliva, and tried to get his breath. Yurio still hadn't looked up, and wore a mask of indifference. 

'I... What... Who... I haven't... Nobody... Who would you think..?'

'I'm not blind, moron. I've seen you looking at his ass like it holds the secret to world peace.'

'...I-'

'Have you?'

'No.'

Yurio nodded, with his lips pursed. 

'That's why you're here then? A booty call? Because I remember the banquet, far too well, and if any of that is going to happen again at least fucking warn me. I'm pretty sure I'm too legally young to have watched that.'

'Its not a... Booty call.'

'What would you call it then?'

Viktor sighed, and raised his arms above his head. 

'Soul searching.'

Yurio growled.

'Of course you would. So... There's very little chance of me winning this thing, is there? Of getting you back to Russia?'

'I didn't-'

'Is there?'

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, with a shred of guilt in his gut.

'Probably not.'

'I'm still going to try fucking hard. I'm here to impress myself, not just you.'

'That's very admirable.'

Yurio looked back down at his phone, the two of them suspended in a dense silence. 

Suddenly, his face became confused and thoughtful. 

'I'm... Not as mad as I thought I'd be. Given that you're a selfish and idiotic maniac.'

Viktor blinked. 

'Oh. Is that good?'

'Maybe.'

'Why do you think that is?'

'I think...' he looked Viktor in the eyes... Right past the eyes and beyond them, 'There's a layer to you I haven't seen before... A healthy layer. And from what I've heard, you haven't been that good at being healthy before.'

He looked at him for a long moment after, then ripped his gaze away as an action that mirrored all his others in aggression level. 

Viktor blinked. 

Yurio growled in his characteristic way.

'I don't like... Care or anything. Obviously.'

The ghost of a smile appeared on Viktor's lips. 

'Clearly.'

'And like I say... I'm still going to beat that asshole, even if it's only me that's actually scoring.'

Viktor smiled properly this time. 

'I wouldn't have it any other way.'

***

Yuri had found his Eros. It wasn't Viktor, but in the moment when he exclaimed it, out of the blue with no pretence, he was too busy laughing to be especially devastated. Pork cutlet bowls. 

It was certainly different.

When Viktor had said that Yuri would surprise him, that wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. 

It was very endearing.

Yurio still seemed to be struggling through; his skating was robotic and not helped by the fact that he was getting himself worked up about it. 

Viktor sent the two of them to a temple to cleanse their minds, which went about as well as could have been expected. 

For extra dramatic quality (and because he wanted an afternoon alone with Macca to visit the dog park) he sent them to a waterfall. Mostly because he was excited that Hasetsu had a waterfall.

Surprisingly, it seemed to do some actual good, rather than just handing out colds that were likely to spread through the small community like wildfire as he thought it might.   
Yurio came back with a little of his toughness rubbed away, not so much in his temperament or personality, but his eyes. The concrete glaze set over his gaze seemed thinner... less obstructive. He skated with more fluidity, more tenderness, more femininity. It was softer, quieter.

In short, he seemed to have found his agape.

Maybe Viktor really could muddle through this coaching lark.

He was glad to have left Yurio with something... it would have felt wrong to have loved him and left him. 

But his attention was still focused on Yuri... he was skating the Eros of a goddamn dinner food, and it was pale in comparison to the raw passion of the banquet but Viktor was watching it with such frequency that every flick of the wrist and every twist of the hips was marked on his brain. He could see it all, crafted into a perfect sequence of beauty and burning, burning love. 

It was on the back of his eyelids as he curled up with Macca under the sheets once again, and he couldn't stand it. 

He wasn't going to sleep. 

So he decided he was going to get drunk.

***

Drinking in Japan was a different experience to drinking in Russia. 

It was warmer, which he didn't think would have made a difference but for some reason did. It felt like the humidity was adding to the experience, warming him just as much as the alcohol. His nerve endings felt heavier...muggier and he was plagued by that schoolboy memory of having to scribble out equations in a classroom with faulty heating. The feeling that can't be described as anything other than "simply don't care." 

In essence, the weather made him get a lot drunker a lot faster. 

The people were also different. There were no red faced, pale old men with sagging faces and cold eyes. There were old men alright, but their cheeks were plump and their eyes warm, and they were much fewer and further between. There were a lot of young people, vibrant souls donning neon coats and pastel hair draping themselves over each other. Viktor was surrounded by blossoming young love, seeds being planted for picket fences and rescue dogs and two-point-five children. 

He simultaneously wanted to applaud them and throw eggs at them.

"I want that," he thought happily. 

"I want that," he thought bitterly. 

Luckily, something that remained the same about the drinking experience despite the distance was what he was drinking. 

They sold vodka. 

Upon seeing the flames being ignited around him, and being reminded of his skin against Yuri's, and the flick of his wrist during his Eros routine, and how he was across town, alone in bed and not wanting him, he was very very grateful. 

He took the bottle, and set fire to his insides as though it were gasoline and Yuri was the match. 

He got some funny looks, but that was okay. 

New Viktor didn't care what people thought about him. 

How exactly he managed to get back to the inn that night, he wasn't sure, but he did know that the sun was just beginning to rise when he fell into bed. 

He was almost certain that he heard the snap of a camera outside his window as he was drifting off, and thought, 'Fuck it. Let them speculate. Let them have their fun.'

He overslept a little, but was quite proud that he managed to get up at all, and cycled to the rink sloppily with dishevelled hair. 

'Sorry I'm late!'

***

It was televised, of course it was televised. 

Viktor Nikiforov was the king of blowing things out of proportion, and when egged on by the mildly terrifying triplets, he was an unstoppable force of unnecessary publicity and farce. 

The cameras watched as Yurio's anger returned, as he faced up to the fact that he was going to have to emptily perform in a completion he wasn't going to win. Viktor felt a considerable wave of sympathy.

"I wouldn't be good for him," he told himself, and it was true. 

They were far too similar, and would clash. There was no way Yurio would be able to surprise him, because he'd have done it himself before, and probably naked and covered in body glitter. 

Yuri nervously promoted his family's hot springs resort, which Viktor thought was adorable. 

Yurio skated beautifully, with clean lines and precision. He landed all his jumps, which included the quads he'd formerly been forbidden from, and his signature combination spin was long, lingering and captivating. It was a little empty though, or not quite full at least. His mind was on the skating, not the feeling behind the skating, and Viktor could see in the downward turn of his mouth that he was disappointed. 

He shouldn't have been, he knew it wouldn't amount to Viktor's coaching. 

Viktor shouted across the ice that it was his best performance to date and meant it. He was very, very proud of him, and very, very sorry that he couldn't pour his heart and soul into him. 

But he was done with deferred pleasure, and needed something for himself after close to three decades of neglecting love and life. 

Yuri was next, of course, and he was shaking. His fingertips were quivering and his eyes dampening and his gaze wavering. He grabbed Viktor swiftly in a moment of adrenaline that Viktor filed away to cherish later. He begged him to watch, and he was at a loss as to how he could think that he could physically do otherwise. 

Especially once he'd gotten started. His opening movement made Viktor whistle, and then he was melting into an intricate step sequence, flowing lyrically like water down tree roots. It was intoxicating. He messed up his first jump, having to put his hand down on the ice, but he didn't stop, and kept his face crafted into a seductive mask. 

That was what mattered... The performance. And it was going simply swimmingly.   
His stamina was astonishing, and his bravery applaudable. At Viktor's request he'd planned all his jumped in the second half. He'd been half hoping for some rebellion, just to keep him on his toes, but that would come later, he was sure. 

He finished with a flourish, painted with sweat, and by that point, the only Yuri in the building. 

Viktor wrapped his arm around him on the podium, second place step dormant, and for the first time since arriving, felt Yuri relax into his touch instead of flinching away. 

He grinned. 

***

Coaching Yuri started off well. Viktor taught him the routine he'd choreographed, this time with feeling that Yuri could twist into his own interpretation, then they skated side by side. Their bodies were moving in time to the music, complementing each other sympathetically and melodically. Viktor was the bass line, holding back a little and providing a steady consistency, and Yuri was the soaring melodies and deep crescendos. 

It was still messy, still rough around the edges, and there were little bits of choreography that still didn't work. But they were both assured that this was a partnership that could work. 

They could do it. 

But Yuri was still looking at him like he was porcelain, a beautiful object to be marvelled at but not touched. And it hurt, because he was messing up his jumps, like something was on his mind, but he wouldn't open up to Viktor. 

He got a glimpse into what life must have been like for Chris and Yakov and Natasha when he'd been struggling silently. 

Viktor knew the comfort that came from having a tangible solution, so he told Yuri to lower the difficulty of his routine by cutting some quads. He had artistry in his body... He could win on performance. He took his hand and lead him out of the bath, "sexy" Viktor more inclined to show his face when naked. Yuri looked like a deer caught in the headlights when Viktor began manipulating and twisting his legs into stretches, but Viktor remained nonchalant, and proposed the idea to Yuri that he would compose his free skate. 

'My coach always picked my music.' 

Viktor nearly dropped Yuri's leg. He couldn't for the life of him think why. This creature, this beautiful creature practically was music. He could see sonatas in the captures of his thighs, operas in his shoulder blades, ballads in his eyes. It was his greatest asset, the way he could melt into the notes on the ice, so why on earth would he not choose the music himself, when he clearly had such an affinity for it. 

He demanded to speak to Yuri's old coach.

While he was talking, Viktor noticed a stark difference between the way he spoke to Celestino, and the way he spoke to him. His tone was softer, less shrill and jumpy, and he seemed to treat him as a sort of father figure. 

A human father figure. 

'Ciao, Ciao, Celestino!' he called down the phone when he deemed introductions to be over and the business at hand suitable to be addressed. 

'You're playing at being a coach in Japan? Cut it out already.'

Viktor's cheeks flushed, but not so as you'd notice. He considered giving the man who'd been so warm to Yuri, then turned to stone with him a piece of his mind, but then decided against it. He was just trying to protect Yuri, and admirably so. Also, this was "business like, adult" Viktor's time to shine, and there was a question to be asked. 

'Why didn't you let Yuri choose his program music?'

And there it was... It was another self confidence issue. He'd only ever bought him one song, then written it off because he thought he was inferior. 

Viktor wanted to shake him by the shoulders, to scream "I flew halfway across the world because of the shapes your body could create." 

But he knew what it was like to have your judgement clouded by the waste in his mind. He also knew what it was like for someone to care, and to make the effort to shovel some of the waste away. 

Yuri played him the song, and it was good - the girl who'd composed it clearly and talent - but it was missing something. Missing... Fire. Viktor's reaction was lukewarm, and he didn't try to hide it. Yuri's face implied that he'd been expecting exactly that. 

Viktor felt a little guilty that he'd (to Yuri's mind) confirmed his fears that his musical selections were sub-par, so suggested they go on an outing. 

Declined. 

Suggested a bath.

Declined. 

In yet another futile attempt, suggested they sleep together. 

Declined. 

The next morning, with a plastered smile to hide how worn down he was getting with the constant rejection, he suggested the ocean. 

And finally, his offer was accepted. 

He didn't betray how surprised he was, but fell in love a little bit more. 

***

The sky was overcast and the air heavy, as they sat side by side on the damp sand. Yuri was curled around himself, with his knees pulled up to his chin, a few feet from Viktor. Macca, ever the trooper, bridged the gap between them.

Overhead, seagulls squawked and flapped their wings, cutting through the clouds in a perfect formation. Viktor didn't think he'd miss St Petersburg - it was just buildings, just streets, just concrete - but in that moment, when he could almost have been there with the cutting wind and shrieking birds, he almost wished he was. He didn't miss the cold, didn't miss the grey, didn't miss the looming figure of his father's house in such close proximity, but he missed bits. His home rink was familiar and Yakov's house warm, and he liked being able to switch off when walking Macca through the streets; his feet could carry him on muscle memory alone. 

He'd orientate himself soon.

He'd be calling Hatsetsu home soon. 

He'd never imagined he'd leave St Petersburg... couldn't see a life outside of those walls, and told Yuri so. He'd thought he'd be toiling away under his late father's shadow until he was empty. 

But then the curves of Yuri's body shifted his worldview, and he realised that there was a life of passion beyond the walls of convention and work.

He still wouldn't look at him. 

But then he started talking, into his knees or into the sea instead of to Viktor, but he was talking. Viktor was privy to Yuri's internal monologue and he felt blessed. 

"This is it," he thought, "this is where the door opens."

'There was a girl in Detroit who was really pushy and kept talking to me.  One time a rink mate got into an accident. I was pretty torn up with worry...' and bless him, he's so caring. So loving. He loved him. Viktor was sure he loved him, 'I was in the hospital waiting room with that girl. When she hugged me to comfort me, I shoved her away without thinking about it.'

Viktor had been hugged by Yuri once, before the competition with Yurio (he wasn't counting being draped over at the banquet) and that too had seemed like he hadn't thought about it. Impulsive decisions seemed important with Yuri. Viktor felt a glimmer of hope about the fact that his initial response to his physical contact was receptive. 

'Wow, why?' He kept his gaze over the ocean, letting Yuri keep his distance and not stifling him with eye contact. 

'I didn't want her to think I was feeling unsettled. I felt like she was intruding on my feelings or something and I hated it. But then I realised that Minako-sensei, Nishigori, Yuko-chan and my family never treated me like a weakling. They all had faith that I'd keep growing as a person, and they never stepped over the line.'

Viktor sighed, and smiled a small, sad smile. He most certainly knew what it was like to lock feelings away for the sake of others. What it was like to wear a mask, to let it slip, and to judge who could handle him without it on their reactions.

'Yuri, you're not weak,' he said lowly, 'No one else thinks that either.'

Yuri kept his nose buried in his knees and didn't react. Viktor decided that if Yuri was in the mood for opening up, he must be in the mood for fixing, so tried the direct approach. 

'What do you want me to be to you?' He knew the selfish answer. He knew the answer he wanted to hear. But he asked anyway. 'A father figure?'

'No.'

Thank god. That would have been... odd. 

'A brother then? A friend?'

'No.'

That would have been... not quite as odd, but still odd.

His heart soared... there were few options left. 

'Then your boyfriend, I guess. I can try my best.'

(He would. My god he would. He wouldn't be perfect but he could try. He would try. Let him try.)

Yuri leapt up like a cat that had been trodden on. Viktor kept his face neutral as his heart fell to his feet. 

'No, no, no, no!'

There was time... there was time. It'll be okay, Viktor. Things can change, you know that. Just listen. Listen.

'I want you to stay who you are, Viktor.' 

He froze, because who the fuck was that? Yuri was still speaking, but he couldn't quite bring himself to listen. Right now, Viktor was a lovesick fool who'd followed his partner in a drunken dance across the world. A decade ago, he'd been a boy being stared down at the dinner table behind long hair. Then he'd been a young athlete who lived with his coach. Then a winner. Then a fool who fucked his best friend. Then a winner. Then a burnout. Then a man who relied on sugar pills to get him through the day. Who knew what he'd be next? 

"Help me find out," he wanted to say to Yuri, "I'm not the God you think I am. I need help too." 

But instead, he promised to be a tough coach and they shook hands. 

Something had been resolved, Yuri looked at him like a human being, but Viktor realised that he was going to have to really look into the mirror that night to dredge out who he was if he was ever going to get Yuri to properly love him. 

***

Yuri pounced on him late at night, with a newly composed piece to use during his free skate. It was impacting and powerful and melodic and beautiful and... Yuri. Viktor was so, so proud of him. He was coming out of his shell, barging into his bedroom uninvited, realising he didn't need to be invited, pouring himself into his skating and letting himself express himself. 

Viktor wished he could do that... He was still working out who he was, so that he could be that person for Yuri. 

He told him the next day that his new theme was 'on my love.' Viktor felt three stone lighter, because a little part of him whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was the inspiration behind the new, tender theme. 

'That's the best theme. Perfect.'

(It's perfect because it's made of you. You're perfect.)

They finished the choreography and it was light, loose and airy. It was as though he was leaving space between the moves, and between his body to fill with emotion. 

It was working. 

That night, the Grand Prix Assignments were announced. 

Yuri was assigned to The Cup of China, along with his old rink mate, Phichit. He looked more relaxed at the mention of his name, which in turn relaxed Viktor. He didn't like it when Yuri caved in on himself and became a ball of anxious energy. It proved to be contagious. He was also to compete at the Rostelecom Cup, in Russia, with Yurio. The thought of going back to Russia with Yuri in tow gave Viktor a funny feeling - he was taking the man he was sure he loved to the place where he'd had his head shoved into a sink for loving men - but he didn't let his face betray anything. This was Yuri's night. 

He also had to compete in the Chugoku, Shinkoku and Kyushu Championship that September, as he'd had bad standings at the former Nationals. 

It would be his first event with Viktor as his coach. It was almost good that it was. Smaller event... Viktor was more than happy to ease himself into being on the sidelines. 

As the event grew nearer, they realised that they still hadn't named the piece. 

It was written hastily in sharpie on the blank DVD, and it was perfect.

"Yuri on ice."

Viktor smiled.

***

Yuri's luck seemed to be against him. He was already feeling the strain of being the oldest skater competing; he'd told Viktor that he'd always had breathing space. Now, he was at the top, with no one to look up to.

Viktor winced as he drew out the card indicating that he'd be the first to skate. It was more than just the pressure of having to go without seeing anyone else; it was like a Groundhog Day. He had taken the same spot at the previous year's Nationals, when everything went wrong. Viktor didn't want him to think it was an omen... that would jeopardise their partnership before it had begun. Yuri's face was a picture of despair... he looked about ready to bolt from the arena there and then. Viktor appreciated that it was his duty to ensure that that didn't happen, and right then, it seemed like a daunting task. 

He told the cameras that they could twist this into a tactical move; that Yuri was going to reserve his best for the Grand Prix Final. True to the toughness he'd been promising, he also casually implied that Yuri would score a personal best. He was testing the waters of this method, dipping his toe into ruthlessness, and in that moment, it only seemed to make things worse. 

But Viktor was optimistic... he'd see how the competition panned out.

He tried to lighten the somber mood of Yuri's practise, waggling a Macca-shaped tissue box in his face, but he remained tense. His confidence was sinking, melting into the floor. He seemed determined to fold into himself and block out the world. 

Viktor was reminded of the year or so he didn't remember much of, when he stayed in his head and skated robotically from dawn until dusk, and made a mental note to try his best to drag him out.

He was late to meet Yuri at the competition, because he was trying out a new Viktor. A Viktor who wore a tailored black suit and perfectly polished shoes, and who utilised cufflinks like and eighteenth century gentleman and tied his tie in a Windsor knot respectably. When he'd looked in the mirror that morning, he'd seen a determined face and focused gaze, and thought, "today, I am coach Viktor. I dress smartly and support my student." He awaited Yuri's response eagerly, wondering as he seemed to constantly be doing if this would be the him that he loved. 

Yuri certainly didn't seem disappointed - Viktor had seen people bury their faces in their hands a fair few times, and had become adept at recognising when it was positive - but others were commenting that he was taking the attention away from the skaters. 

He reasoned that it was hardly his fault. 

He battled with what to say to Yuri before he skated, first inwardly then decided to vocalise; Yuri seemed to respond to directness a lot more successfully than subtlety.   
However, just as he was beginning to ask and was anticipating a response, Yuri took to the ice. Stoic and zombie like, he didn't seem to have noticed Viktor, and his heart sunk.

"Is this where the door closes?" 

Yuri had seemed to be beginning to open up to him. Now he was building a wall around himself again.

Viktor was almost surprised by how much it got to him... he no longer wanted Yuri for his body... the electricity of skin on skin... but for every inch of him. Every molecule of brain matter, and every breath, and every moment and every second of his past present and future. 

But he was skating out onto the ice alone, and ignoring the man he saw as only his coach.

"A month ago you'd been a God," Viktor told himself, "Its getting better."

But the warm up was ending and Yuri only looked sadder. 

Viktor wasn't so sure.

***

Viktor grabbed Yuri by the shoulders and held him to his chest with all the strength he could muster. He could feel the heat coming off him, sense the shade of vermillion his cheeks must be turning, and see the flashes of camera lenses radiating off the ice. 

Yuri was shaking a little, body twitching and squirming, but he was leaning into Viktor's touch like he was a source of comfort, and above all, flesh and blood. 

There it was. 

A shift. 

Viktor buried his nose into the skin behind Yuri's neck. 

"We're not lovers yet, but you can see that we're made of the same things. We are both ice and love and music."

'Seduce me with all you have. If you can seduce me, you can enthral the entire audience.'

In Viktor's mind, he was in a roundabout way telling Yuri that he could win. Of course he'd be able to seduce Viktor, he was reduced to a slobbering fool at the mere memory of the night at the banquet. Every single millimetre of him was burning umbers and coffee the morning after, but shy, dangerous Yuri didn't know that. So Viktor hid behind the guise of "coach Viktor," (who seemed thus far to be working, just not enough) as though his words were just a reflection of his tough and unconventional training methods. 

He skated wonderfully, especially in the first half, all sharp edges and seductive gazes, and Viktor melted. But in the second half, his focus shifted from the fire in his belly to the cogs working in his brain, as the jumps approached. 

It looked a little mechanical, but precision wise wonderful. 

Off the ice, Viktor praised him on his artistry, but scolded him for letting his mind work too hard. Yuri seemed disappointed, but "coach Viktor" had promised to be tough, and Yuri had promised to be receptive. 

He achieved a personal best, by over ten points, and Viktor knew... just knew, that if he played more on the lyricism and the musicality of his Free Skate, he could set the world alight. 

He took to the ice, donned in a dark, sparkling costume that exposed a good portion of his chest (god help Viktor) and began to tell his story. He began stiff, and started to tire after only the first half. Viktor buried his nose in the Macca tissue box, and peeped out from behind one of the plush ears with one eye. 

But then , the fatigue started to fuel him, and he was moving more fluidly. His jumps were messy but the audience was loving it; loving how every fibre of his body was melting it I the music. They'd we're in love with the performance, not whether he stepped out or not. Viktor put the box down, and started to watch with both eyes. The performance was hasty and breathtaking. 

On the final jump, he slammed into the barrier of the rink, and blood poured out of his nose.  
   
It almost added the rawness of the piece.

He'd disobeyed Viktor, which made him very, very pleased. 

The element of surprise is a beautiful thing, and he did love a touch of the dramatic. 

What is life, if not a stage, after all. 

He held him close again after the performance, though this time he was still dazed from the lights and the cheers. 

Yuri beamed on top of the podium, and Viktor felt a spark of the alive feeling he'd had during the banquet. 

"Maybe this is it," he thought, "maybe this is enough."

But then he heard Yuri talk about how he was the reason behind his theme of 'love,' and that he wanted to hold onto him, an show he'd given something tangible to the abstract affection he'd been feeling all his life. 

And he realised that it wasn't, coaching Yuri wouldn't and would never be enough. But that was okay, because maybe it didn't need to be. 

***

Sometimes things weren't better. Sometimes being in Japan, with his near future sorted and the man he was in love with looking at him like he was made of something other than concrete and ivory wasn't enough. 

The sugar pills were still disappearing from their little bottle. He still forgot to eat sometimes. He still couldn't sleep sometimes. 

He lost less time than he used to... it was rare that he'd find himself standing in the middle of the room blinking because he forgot how he ended up there. 

But it had happened once or twice. 

Only once had he ended up in the bathroom with his father, with his ponytail glinting in the low light and the heavy scissors taunting him from the worktop.

It was on a cold day, the icy wind settling into his bones, when the sky was cloudy and overcast and the roads sparkling with ice. Yuri had been flubbing his jumps all day  and Viktor couldn't make it better. Couldn't get him to open the doors and let whatever it was that was worrying him to spill out instead of eating away at him silently. 

He had gone to bed with the knowledge that that day at least, he'd failed as both a coach and a prospective lover. He couldn't take away the fog for the sake of Yuri's performance or his health, so sunk into the duvet feeling heavy and bereft. 

And a few hours later, he was sitting in the deepest corner of his mind, with his knees pulled up to his chest, at the point in his life that he always regarded as the darkest... when someone else decided he wasn't worth it, and made him think that too for a long time.   
Ironically, in retrospect, that moment was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. It lead to a chain reaction of events that gave him a family, a purpose and five gold medals. 

But it still hurt, even a decade later. 

He awoke with damp eyes and a heavy heart. His instruction on the ice that day was weak at best. 

The panic attacks didn't quite end either. Nearly... he was on the precipice of fine until the night before they were due to leave for the Cup of China. 

It came at him out of nowhere, like a wave on a calm sea, and he was on his hands and knees in the corner gasping for air. He wasn't sure where he was, but he did knew that he was being stupid, categorically ridiculously stupid because he was fine and everything was fine and he was safe and nothing was going to get him, but he just couldn't breathe.

He tried to press a hand to his chest but it was shaking too much, fluttering inches from his rib cage before fluttering in the opposite direction and falling into his lap. 

He sat there, for a long while, with his hands pressed between his thighs and his lips sealed together. 

He whimpered and gritted his teeth, tears of annoyance and pain pooling in his eyes, and swung an arm out, sweeping the contents of his nightstand onto the floor. 

There was an almighty clatter as they collided with the hardwood floor, and he gasped again once, then twice, and let the tears fall. 

His nose ran like the pathetic remains of a plugged waterfall.

"Get it together."

His brain whispered.

"GET IT TOGETHER."

It yelled.

Outside, he thought he heard the creak of footsteps. The door handle was pushed down, lingered for a moment, then snapped back up. Viktor let his head fall in between his knees.  
A moment later though, the door opened, just a crack, and Macca scampered in. The person who opened the door pulled it shut quickly. 

He gulped. 

Macca swaggered over sympathetically, and pressed his nose against Viktor's. He buried his face into his fur and wrapped his arms around his neck. 

He calmed against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

A plane that he knew he'd be on the next day flew overhead, and he paled at the knowledge that he wouldn't have Macca there if he lost his mind halfway across the globe. 

***

He told Macca to be good while he was gone and not to steal any steamed buns, maintaining an air of nonchalance. He wasn't going to betray how much he was going to feel his absence; Yuri hadn't mentioned the ordeal of the night before, so he wouldn't either. He gave Macca a parting pat on the head, and then, they were in a taxi. 

Yuri wanted to sleep on the flight, curled into the tiny seats, but Viktor was that wonderful mix of antsy and excited where every one of your nerve endings is on fire. He wanted nothing more than to sip champagne and dance in the aisles, but settled for letting his head loll onto Yuri's shoulder, and get his kicks from the feeling of skin on skin. 

He awoke in a humid Beijing, which seemed to have all the colours turned up to full brightness, and breathed in a hot, fuelled breath. 

He was ready. 

Yuri, standing beside him with his shoulders stooped, appeared less so. 

They were in the middle of an interview when Yakov strode into shot, trailing behind Georgi with his head bowed. 

Viktor beamed and caught him by the sleeve, allowing himself to be dragged from the frame of the camera. 

'Want to come and eat hot pot with us?'

Yakov kept walking, eyes determinedly burning into the ground. 

'Hey, why are you ignoring me?'

Yakov whirled around with the fire of a dragon, and spoke in a voice of hot coals. 

'Viktor. Listen, I feel sick when I see you playing pretend-coach. I'd prefer if you'd only talk to me when you're ready to plead your return to skating. Got it?'

Viktor stared at him for a moment, then smiled. 

He slung an arm around Yuri's shoulder.

'Yakov's not interested.'

He had heard every unspoken word that hung in the air, and Yakov knew he had. "I feel sick when I see you coaching because that's a career for someone else's benefit and I know what happens when you take the focus off yourself. If you want to come back to skating, just come to me, and you'll be welcomed."

'Let's go.'

***

There was more technicolor food on the table than Viktor had ever seen, and he was once again struck with the realisation that he wasn't living his old life anymore, and he could eat as much as and whatever he wanted. 

He devoured raw food that Yakov would have put a skull and cross bones on, as Yuri nibbled sensibly on cooked food, every inch the model student, every millimetre the model athlete. He seemed thoughtful that night, with a faraway look in his eye, and told the ceiling rather than Viktor what was on his mind. 

He'd said too much at the press conference; let his mouth run away without him, and now he was scared that the crowd would shun him if he didn't win. But then, his old rink mate, the boy from Thailand who'd dragged him home in the early hours after the banquet, arrived and some of the tension seemed to melt out of him. 

Something niggling in the back of his mind told Viktor to be jealous; Yuri was comfortable with Phichit in a way he was only beginning to see shreds of. But he was warm looking, with kind eyes that crinkled up in the corner when he smiled. Viktor liked to think his instincts were well toned, and his instincts told him he was one of the good guys. 

'Hi!'

'Oh... Hello!'

Phichit quickly turned his attention back to Yuri, which Viktor internally applauded him for... Yuri was in a pent up mood; he needed all the love he could get. He suggested inviting Celestino - Yuri's old coach from Detroit - to join them, and he paled. The reluctance on his face was blinding. Viktor knew that Yuri felt he'd abandoned and let him down, as well as knowing that he was more than happy to leave his past of falls and losses in the past.   
He also half suspected that he was feeling awkward for Viktor's sake, after how prickly he'd been on the phone when they were discussing Yuri's music choices. He'd questioned Viktor's integrity as a coach, which is a difficult thing to forget. 

He needn't have worried though. Viktor appreciated that he was only trying to look out for Yuri, if aggressively, and was more than willing to be civil. 

He suspected, after all, that Yakov would have acted in much the same way. 

Celestino was initially quiet and a little stiff, avoiding Viktor's gaze determinedly with a red tint to his cheeks. 

Viktor thrust a piece of shrimp into his face in what he hoped came across as a peace offering, but Celestino only recoiled, and a slightly tipsy Viktor realised he needed to rethink his tactics. 

Getting him drunk it was then. 

He half hoped that Yuri would join in... Oh to relive the banquet. He made a mental note to text Chris if Yuri hit the bottle; he had an uncanny ability to be able to detect the nearest stripper pole. 

A hour or so passed, and Viktor had lost his shirt and Celestino was snoring and dribbling on the table. 

Viktor considered them to be firm friends. 

In an impulsive moment of alcohol fuelled passion, he flung his arms around Yuri and wrapped his bare torso around his back. 

He was babbling about a hot spring happily, vaguely registering that Yuri was sinking into him in a way that more than suggested he was at least half enjoying the contact, as camera phones worked in overdrive around him. 

He was half led, half dragged back to the hotel, by Yuri and a few other younger skaters, and fell into bed with a smile on his face. It dropped a bit when he heard the door shut - Yuri was still determined to sleep on his own - but it didn't last long. 

He was soon dreaming, in bleeding watercolours and ice chips. 

The next morning, of course, the pictures had gone viral.

***

He saw Chris for the first time that season, inches from Yuri.

He greeted him with a smile, that Chris returned with a teasing glint in his eye, before stepping away from Yuri. 

'Chris! How's it going?'

Chris sighed. 

'I'm not motivated without you,' he stepped up to Viktor and took ahold of his tie, pulling him towards his chest. Viktor sneaked a look over his shoulder to see if Yuri had reacted, but he still looked shell shocked from whatever had happened before he arrived. 

'You always get like this at the start of the season,' he replied flippantly. 

A bald man, with thick rimmed glasses approached behind them. He was Chris' latest coach, this time from his home turf. The reds and greys of London had been exhaustive for him, and he needed at least a whiff of his home turf. It was unlikely to last until the next season, but Viktor thought he looked well. 

Very well. 

'Chris is right. He can't get serious without you. Come back to the fold.'

Viktor just smiled, as some girls behind him began shrieking. He turned his back on Chris and Yuri to listen to them gush over his past performances. When they were finished, Yuri mooched off to the toilet, and Chris grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty corridor.   
Away from the crowds, they hugged, short and sweet, and then Chris raised his arms to the sky in a gesture of confusion. 

'No... Still... No?'

'What?'

'You haven't seduced the pants off him yet?'

Viktor sighed, and turned on his heel, resting his forehead forlornly on the wall. 

'Still no.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'I know,' he turned back around, giving Chris a hysterical look, 'I know. Wait... How did you know?'

Chris raised his eyebrows. 

'I have a sex radar. It was decidedly not tingling.'

'It's clearly finely tuned. Not so much as a kiss,' he signed wistfully. 

'Aww... Poor intimacy deprived Viktor,' Chris said, pinching Viktor cheek between his finger and thumb and waggling it melodramatically. Then he dropped it, along with his voice, 'You're doing good though?'

Viktor thought for a moment, then smiled. 

'Yeah. Yeah I'm doing good. Better. Good.'

Chris narrowed his eyes, then smiled back. 

'Yeah, I think you are.'

Viktor nodded. 

'Are you?'

'Yes. Yes, I most certainly am.'

Viktor looked him up and down... Took in the colour in his cheeks and the light in his eyes, and... Oh. 

'Now Chris, I don't have a sex radar, but if I did, am I right in saying it would be tingling?'

Chris' mouth turned up in both corners, which evolved into an almighty grin. 

'Why Mr Nikiforov, I believe it would.'

'Oh my god...' Viktor's hands flapped, 'Oh my god! What's his name, what's he like, do I have to give him the "break his heart, I'll break your legs" talk?'

'Milo, wonderful, and you can if it'll make you happy.'

'Chris, holy shit!'

'I know... I know!'

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks. Shit, I'm skating in like half an hour, I need to piss. See you later.'

Viktor clapped him on the shoulder, still euphoric from Chris' news. 

'See you later. Good luck, in case it's after you skate. Not too much luck though. I want Yuri to win.'

Chris laughed. 

'I'm going to beat his ass off the ice. However pleasant an ass it is.'

Chris rounded the corner with a spring in his step, and Viktor was still smiling like an idiot as he weaved around the building to find Yuri. 

***

Both Phichit and Guang-Hong achieved impressive but beatable scores.

But Yuri seemed overly antsy.

Viktor suspected that there was something else on his mind. The crowd. 

The nostalgic warmth of Phichit's routine and the sweet innocence of Guang-Hong's had got the audience well and truly on side. There had been several shouts of "under marked" and the cheers were relentless. 

All they'd see when Yuri skated was a wannabe who'd failed the previous year, and come back with a new image in a poor attempt at a clean slate.

Even worse, they'd see the man who'd stolen Viktor away and kept him for himself.   
Yuri was the last group one skater, so Viktor was counting his blessings that he hadn't been first, but despairing about the amount of time he'd had to stew and worry.   
The determination in Yuri's eyes was alien to Viktor, but he wasn't complaining by any stretch of the imagination as he leaned over the barrier and told him to imagine pork cutlet bowls and beautiful women. He gripped his fisted hand and spoke of the beauty of his personal charm. He stroked slowly with his thumb, and Yuri's eyes changed again, from grit to raw passion. 

He wrapped his fingers around Viktor's, whose heart took on the pace of a champion racehorse, and pressed their foreheads together. 

Skin on skin, head to head, heart to heart. 

My god, Viktor was glad he was an impulsive fool. 

'Don't ever take your eyes off me.'

"I can't. You're all I have," he wanted to say. 

But instead, he pulled away, and told Yuri to get into place. 

Viktor ran his hand through his hair, the place where Yuri's skull had made contact, and (true to his unspoken word) followed him around the ice with his eyes.

Something had changed. 

Something had flipped his switch. 

Viktor was in love. 

He already knew it, of course, but somehow he knew it more. 

Yuri performed his opening sequence, limbs twisting around himself like a rhythmic gymnast's ribbon, and flicked his head along with the dip in the music as he had so many times before. 

This time though, he looked directly at Viktor with a gaze made of honey and roses, and every ounce of breath was stolen from his body. 

He skated a tight and fluid step sequence, touching every corner of the ice and grasping the attention of every member of the audience. His legs were works of finely crafted art, and nobody could possibly argue.

'Perfect,' Viktor breathed. 

His jumps were perfect, every one of them. He flew across the ice like a caged bird released. Viktor could barely hear the screams of his own internal monologue over the screams of the crowd. 

He had a good idea what it would say though. 

"Make him yours. MAKE HIM YOURS."

Yuri Katsuki finished his program successfully to the euphoria of the entire building, and Viktor raised his arms above his head and let out a joyful shout. There was sweat beading on his forehead and adrenaline coursed through his blood like a drug. 

'That was perfect,' he whispered, when his brain was aligned enough to form coherent thoughts, and he opened his arms as Yuri skated away.

Chris, ever the saint, steered him toward the Kiss and Cry because he was a coach and a responsible adult with a job to do.

Viktor was floating. 

Yuri was skating to him.

For him.

He was sure.

He scored well into the hundreds, and Viktor gathered him into his arms.

He was on top of the world for the first time.

Viktor knew what a dangerous place it was to be; on top of a pedestal, but couldn't bring himself to be anything but ecstatic that day. 

***

Viktor was still on cloud nine by the next morning, but Yuri was anything but. The area under his eyes was purple and inflated, and he couldn't claim to a blind man that he'd slept. Viktor herded him into bed and slipped a sleep mask over his eyes. He folded the blankets under his body with a light touch, letting his fingers linger on his back. 

And because Yuri had skated for him, and because he believed himself to have exceeded all former human classifications of "lovestruck," he decided he was going to stop lingering with pillows outside Yuri's bedroom door, and curled up on his chest. 

Yuri let out a surprised noise from behind the mask, but relaxed, and asked Viktor only if he'd set an alarm. 

Viktor deigned to reply, but it didn't matter because very quickly, Yuri was breathing deeply and sinking into the bed. 

Viktor was there. In bed with Yuri. Exchanging body heat. 

He smiled into Yuri's chest, and didn't sleep himself, but stayed there with his fingers ghosting along the pillow beside Yuri's head. 

When he awoke and checked his phone, he decided Chris must be psychic.

//"Sex radar flat but like... Something???"//

Viktor audibly snorted and Yuri have him a funny look. He waved a hand dismissively. 

//'HOW DID YOU KNOW??"//

//"Gay magic. Also, WHAT WHAT WHAT??????"//

//"We slept together."//

//"WHAT SLEPT SLEPT??"//

//"No no no no no, like slept as in like... You know... Snoring and actual sleep."//

//"Disappointing. Cute though."//

//"He's so warm."//

//"AWWWWWWW VIK."//

Viktor saw Yuri fumbling with his water bottle later that day, and put on his serious coach face. Yuri was officially forbidden from jumping during the warm up session. 

Of course, he jumped during the warm up session - he'd learnt the art of disobeying his coach from the best - and fallen. Viktor knew that his confidence would be rocked, and like the professional adult who knew what he was doing he was, told him how common it was for skaters to perfect something they messed up in practice. 

He kept a careful distance as they lumbered along the corridor, Yuri wearing a glum expression, and Viktor unaccustomed to being the one to keep it together. 

***

Viktor tried to watch Chris, he really did. He knew that he was skating in an attempt to claw him back onto the ice, and felt like he owed it to him. 

But it was really worrying Yuri; he was slumped against the wall, swaying precariously in nervousness. He was shaking, on wobbly legs and Viktor couldn't stand it any longer. Before Chris had finished his performance, he was dragging Yuri away from the vibrancy and into the deserted car park. 

Viktor tried at first to calm Yuri gently, telling him to take deep breaths and withholding the medal standings. However, after a while, it became evident that it wasn't working. He was immensely tense, shoulders raised up to almost touching his ears and limbs braced by his sides. 

The crowd above cheered and Yuri made a strangled noise. Viktor leapt forward, and clamped his hands over Yuri's ears.

'Don't listen!'

An earpiece clattered to the floor, and Viktor sighed and adjusted his hands to pull Yuri closer to him. He'd been wondering why Yuri had been getting so stressed at specific moments, when they were apparently just standing in the car park. 

He blinked at him sternly, "coach Viktor" flooding his being and clouding his vision, as Yuri's gaze dropped forlornly to the floor. They stayed like that, Viktor staring into eyes that weren't staring back with the ragged breaths of a master mingling with the ragged breaths of a student, for a while. 

Yuri reached up and took ahold of Viktor's wrists and lowered them from where they were clamped to his head. 

'Viktor... It's almost time. We have to get back.' 

Viktor didn't move, even when Yuri stepped around him, just continued staring into the space where his eyes had been a moment ago. 

He had no idea what to do. 

Yuri didn't seem to... Want to compete. 

He didn't seem to want gold, or to want the finals, or to want the glory. 

He looked like he wanted to go back to bed, and Viktor couldn't have that. 

Couldn't have Yuri anything less than striving for perfection. He knew the feeling of slogging, knew the feeling of going through the motions, knew the feeling of nothing you're doing amounting to anything. 

He couldn't let that happen to the beautiful boy he was in love with. 

Then, coach Viktor remembered that he'd been skating for him that morning. 

Maybe he wanted Viktor's body.  

Maybe if Viktor tied himself to the win, he'd be motivated. 

Maybe if he broke his heart, he'd skate with fire. It was made of glass after all. 

'Yuri. If you mess up this free skate and miss the podium,' he ran a hand through his hair, 'I'll take responsibility by resigning as your coach.'

They stared at each other for a moment, then two. Blank face looking at blank face.   
Then, all at once and horribly, Yuri's face wasn't blank anymore. It was crumpling, and melting and... Fucking hell... It was crying. Honest to god crying. Tears of sorrow and shock rolling down his face. Viktor sucked in a breath. 

He'd messed up. 

He'd messed up. 

That wasn't supposed to happen. 

He'd messed up. 

'Why would you say something like that? Like you're trying to test me?' Yuri whimpered, voice aquiver with raw emotion. 

Viktor put his hands up in a desperate sign of surrender, as the foundations of his world fell at his feet. 

He'd messed up. 

He'd messed up. 

He'd ruined it all. 

He'd messed up. 

'Uh... Sorry Yuri. I wasn't being serious-'

'I'm used to being blamed for my own failures! But this time, I'm anxious because my mistakes would reflect on you too. I've been wondering if you secretly wanted to quit!'

'Of course I don't.'

He'd messed up. 

He'd messed up. 

What if he had to go back to Russia?

He'd messed up. 

'I know!' a shout, torn from the lips of the quiet, the gentle Yuri Katsuki. Viktor gulped. 

He'd messed up. 

He'd messed up. 

He'd never love him properly. 

He'd messed up. 

This couldn't be fixed with a laugh and a flick of the hair. 

This was serious. There were issues being dragged up. Viktor pressed a hand into his neck and turned away, the shred of logic he had left in his brain telling him to give Yuri space. 

'I'm not good with people crying in front of me. I don't know what to do,' Yuri didn't reply and he panicked, 'Should I just kiss you or something?' 

'No!'

Viktor knew that was the answer he'd get. It still stung. 

But Yuri was looking at him properly, open and full in a way he hadn't since the banquet. He wanted this. He wanted this to be fixed. He wanted closure. 

'Just have more faith in me than I do that I'll win! You don't have to say anything. Just stand by me!'

Viktor's eyes widened. His face and jaw became slack. 

It truly was Viktor he wanted. He was willing to want him... To have it even after that momentous cock-up. 

They were just as in love as each other. 

Yuri wanted more than his body. 

Viktor wasn't sure what to make of this. 

The stomach acid was bubbling up inside him, and the thought of his yearn being reciprocated made him sway on his feet. 

How on earth was he going to tackle that?

He was half hoping that his crap impulse control would do the job for him.

***

Yuri looked lighter as he skated, like he'd cried out a portion of whatever had been weighing him down. He allowed his arms to float up above his head, and his fingers to splay independently . 

He glided with a smile, as though weightless. The corners of his mouth were turned up by invisible helium balloons. The audience was enthralled and Viktor was in love. 

His first quad was completed perfectly, as was his second. Viktor threw his arms into the air, and punched enthusiastically at the space above his head. 

His first triple was tight and beautiful, but he touched down on his second. Like a trooper, he sprung up effortlessly and continued skating, carving artistry into the ice. His combination and over rotation, but considering he should have been dead on his feet, after a sobbing session and very little sleep, he might as well have been flying.

Viktor pressed his palms to his cheeks. 

In love. 

In love. 

In love. 

My god, Yuri Katsuki and his step sequences. Viktor was almost certain that they surpassed all known laws of physics, of science, of possibility. The things they did to the audience; to Viktor's physiology. If he wasn't too busy becoming drunk on the movements of his legs, he could have written a thesis on it. 

Yuri began to get ready for what he'd planned as a quad toe loop. He took off, hit the ground, and got right up. 

But it hadn't been a toe loop. 

It was a quad. 

One of Viktor's quads, his signature move, executed with a crap landing, but enough beautiful rotations, and more than enough beautiful feeling. 

Viktor's mouth fell open, and he felt each and every one of his functions stop.   
He finished with a flourish, that would have been smug on anyone else, but on him just looked raw, arm extended towards Viktor. 

Viktor's head was in his hands, and there was wetness bubbling up in his chest that he didn't know what to do with. He knew that behind his palms, Yuri would be looking at him for direction, or instruction, or something that coaches should give. 

He couldn't give that then, not when his brain was scrambled and his heart determinedly trying to leave his body. 

All he could do was run, run towards where Yuri would be. 

He stopped at the opening to the ice, and turned to Yuri, with his arms hanging limply at his sides. His fingers were tingling, his arms were lead, and Yuri was skating towards him. His lips were moving, but Viktor couldn't tell what he was saying. 

He felt that it must be true, because there was a beaming smile on his face, and nothing so pure could ever be wrong. 

So he nodded. He nodded as Yuri grew closer and closer, the space between them metres, then feet, then inches, then centimetres, then...

Nothing. 

And then their bodies were one. One entity, one being, one force of love and power. And their lips were pressed together, tightly entwined, and their arms were wrapped around each other. Viktor was cradling Yuri's neck with his palm, and Yuri had his fingers pressed into the small of Viktor's back. Their eyes were shut, two sets of eyelashes fluttering against each other. 

If Viktor was dreaming, he didn't care one bit. 

But he was fairly certain he wasn't. 

And it was overwhelming, because Viktor wasn't kissing Yuri, nor was Yuri kissing Viktor, they were kissing each other, both utterly devoted to the other's mouth. Caressing a top lip with a bottom and a bottom with a top. Exchanging heat and adrenaline, and two lifetimes of lonely nights and empty sunrises. 

Vanquished. 

Viktor had thought that he was alive at the banquet but now... He was immortal. He would never die, and never fall, and never hurt again. 

He'd stay in Yuri's arms as hell froze over, and heaven fell to earth, and the ice caps melted and the sun died. As the dead rose and his asshole father walked the earth once more, ravaged form wielding an ancient skating supplement and a bottle of Vodka. 

He and Yuri would be watching the fall of the species, held together, united against the fire and the hurt, away from time, and away from whatever the world wanted to throw at them. 

He was in love. 

He was in love. 

He was so, so in love. 

***

Viktor sat alone in his hotel room that night, with Yuri in the en-suite bathroom. He was twisting his hands around each other nervously, and drumming his heel against the floor.   
He could hear Yuri clattering around, moving bottles and running water. 

They hadn't spoken about the kiss.

What if he was wrong?

What if he'd screwed it all up?

What if Yuri didn't want him?

Or worse, Yuri wanted him, but the bit of him that he'd shown to the world. The untouchable Viktor Nikiforov, weighed down by gold medals and viewing the world from the top of a podium. 

The media presence, the guy from the aftershave adverts, the poster boy of figure skating.   
"Viktor Nikiforov, Living Legend,' not Viktor Nikiforov, man who takes sugar pills and struggled his way through the tail end of his career. The man who was in love with a stranger. 

Yuri stopped out of the bathroom, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a loose fitting cotton t-shirt, looking sleepy and content and perfect. 

Viktor stood up sharply, and Yuri beamed. 

It fell when Viktor didn't beam back.

'What's wrong?'

He plopped back down on the bed, and rested his elbows on his knees. He threaded his hands through his hair and sighed. 

'...Viktor?'

There was silence, while Viktor fought a battle in his head. Yuri took a couple of tentative steps towards him. 

'Viktor... Is something... Have I-'

'No! Perfect. You're... Perfect,' Viktor rasped. 

'I...' Yuri smiled, but it was uneasy, 'Thank you. What's wrong then?'

Viktor groaned, and Yuri sat beside him. They let the silence rest for a moment, then finally, 'Do you want this?'

There was an air of desperation, a couple of decibels too high, and Yuri was slightly taken aback. Viktor was the one who'd tackled him on the ice and kissed him in front of the world. That was pretty much the definition of exuding confidence. 

He certainly wasn't complaining. 

'I... Yes, of course I do.'

He laughed quietly.

'I've never wanted anything more.'

Viktor put a hand on Yuri's knee. 

'Yeah but...' he sighed again, 'Do you want the man who won medals, who smiled at the camera, who let himself get printed in teen magazines or... Do you want me? This me. The me that's being clingy and irritating and was, I'm not afraid to admit, rather forthright in my intentions.'

Yuri let out a breath. He angled his knees towards Viktor so that their thighs were pressed together, and wrapped a gentle hand around the back of his neck. 

'I want you. Every bit of you. Every crack, every flaw, every imperfection, every quirk, every inch, every centimetre, inside and out, ridiculous and serious, muted and melodramatic, happy and sad. I want your past, present and future. Every moment. Everything. I want you, and I want you to want me, and I want to kiss you every morning, and every night, and at periodic times during the day so that we can annoy the people around us, and I want to warm myself on your body heat at night, and cry into your shoulder, and have you cry into my shoulder, and I want to walk your dog, and cook meals with you, and hug you and... Love you. Is that okay?'

Yuri stopped for breath for the first time, and the ceiling lights buzzed. 

Viktor gulped, and shook his head.

'You can't possibly want everything.'

'Everything.'

'I'm... A bit messed up. Sometimes. Not always. But sometimes.'

'Aren't we all? I know I am.'

Viktor shrugged.

Yuri rested his chin on the top of his head. 

'I guess we start from now then. As boyfriends?'

Viktor laughed, still wet but light and happy. 

'Yeah, I suppose so. Boyfriends.'

Yuri exhaled breathily. 

'Wow.'

'Yeah... Holy crap.'

Yuri giggled, an honest to god, adorable giggle, and released Viktor. Their foreheads pressed together, each a steadying force. 

'Yuri?'

'Hmm?' he hummed, almost into Viktor's mouth they were so close. 

'I think I love you.'

'I think I love you too,' he said simply, smiling fondly. 

There was a small silence.

'No.'

'No?'

'I know I love you. I really know it.'

'I know I love you too.'

They both started to giggle, then fell back onto the sheets. 

They lay there for a while, giddy and euphoric on each other's love, as the stars blinked outside, and the world seemed to be at rights. 

***

'How do you feel about returning to Russia?'

Now that was a question and a half. It was strange to say the least, coming back to a country that no longer felt like home. Home had changed. Home was a person now. Though he supposed, that person was there too; he wasn't alone anymore.

'When will you return to skating?' 

The question had been following him since the moment he left, sometimes asked silently with a look, mostly not. He still didn't know. Watching Yuri skate and win and grow and succeed made him feel a tug of... Something. When competing had been a slog, he'd been alone, working for the empty pleasure of faceless people around the world. Now he had an incentive, a worthy opponent to fight for and against.

Yuri was his priority though, of course he was. 

'Until the Grand Prix Final is over, I won't comment on any future plans,' he said in his "interview voice," deliberately vague and close to obtuse, 'Right now, I see a lot of potential in Katsuki Yuri's skating. I'd like you all to focus on Yuri at the Rostelecom Cup.' 

He flashed one of his infamous smiles and the cameras lapped it up. 

Behind them Yuri Plisetsky growled and glowered. 

'But if the skater Yuri has that much charisma, don't you want to face him as a fellow competitor?'

Viktor frowned and hummed, the reporter having touched a nerve. Of course he'd love to skate against Yuri; it would be competition like he'd never experienced before. And he wondered if Yuri wanted that too... Wanted to face him on the ice, on a level playing field. He decided that his internal conflict on the matter wasn't ready to be vocalised, and decided to be what Chris would dub an "opportunistic bastard."

He pointed towards Yurio, still wearing an expression synonymous with teenage angst.

'Hey! It's Yurio!'

Viktor tucked him under one arm, and dragged him into shot. 

Yuri shrieked, as he did, about how Viktor wasn't the star anymore, about how he was hot on his heels, and how he damned the day Viktor was born. 

Viktor smiled. 

The reporters were no longer asking if he was going back to skating, and the question was returned to his head. 

He decided to ignore it for the time being. 

***

Yuri skated as though it was his last time on the ice, because if he was being honest with himself, it may well have been. 

There was still a chance that Viktor would drop him as a student should he fail to make the podium and advance to the final, so he needed to lap up every inch, every sound, every millimetre. He wasn't getting away from Viktor easily; not now that they were sleeping in the same bed, breathing the same air and living the same life, but his confidence wouldn't take another season if he failed. 

Because he was pouring every inch of himself into it, loosely and freely rather than focusing on points, he skated flawlessly, earning a raucous standing ovation and a cheer of elation from Viktor. 

He left the ice to a Yuri Plisetsky who somehow seemed ten feet taller and a thousand years older. 

He'd grown into himself. 

Of course, he threw a characteristic insult their way before skating himself, but Yuri and Viktor could do nothing but beam at each other. 

They were proud of him... He'd come so far. 

Viktor also felt warm on behalf of Yakov. He was glad that he had someone to fill the gap he'd left... Someone to coach to the podium rather than the steps leading up to it like he was for Georgi. 

His shouts of good luck seemed to anger Yurio, but he grinned anyway. He suspected that a good portion of his performance was rage filled, and he sincerely hoped that he'd fired him up enough to get him to skate his best. 

Despite losing a few technical points on a failed triple, on which he fell, he skated beautifully and with passion, as though an artist composing an oil painting. He came in second, leaving Yuri first. 

Viktor could not have been happier. 

He should have known that perfection couldn't last forever. 

Yuri's phone rang at the tail end of JJ's performance, and before he even picked it up, Viktor's stomach dropped. 

***

He sat in the waiting room with his head in his hands, a thousand capacities, responsibilities, conflicting emotions and miscellaneous chunks of confusion beating down on his shoulders. 

On the other side of the globe, in a country that he once called home, Yuri was skating without him. Viktor knew he'd be beautiful, he was always beautiful, but he lit up under the fluorescent lights and glowed in technicolor. Perhaps he'd be nervous, perhaps he'd be determined, perhaps he'd be sad, but he'd be glorious. 

And Viktor wasn't there to see it. 

It was stupid, anyone would say so. He was a big boy - a big boy who was a coach with a student who needed his support. He was also a big boy with a boyfriends that needed his support. He knew this, and was painfully aware of it. 

But he was also a big boy, who'd once been a smaller boy, who'd snuggled up to his dog on lonely nights and cried into his fur. 

He needed to be here. 

Macca whined from inside the room. Viktor winced, but sighed a sigh of half sympathy, half relief. At least he was alive. 

For the umpteenth time in his life, he owed Yakov the world. The wonderful, wonderful old grump, still reeling from Viktor's impromptu departure from competitive skating, had opened his arms and taken Yuri under his wing, just because Viktor had asked him too.   
He made a mental note to assemble a fruit basket, and maybe bake a cake. 

He probably owed Yakov his life, or quality of life at least, and vowed to make it more explicit and obvious. 

He'd left cups of tea outside the door, and let him sleep in the spare room, and nursed him back to health, and given him a kick up the arse when he needed it, and a shoulder to cry on when he needed that more. 

The veterinary nurse poked her head around the door with a smile. 

'He's good... He's fine. Sleeping but fine. He really perked up when you got here. Tell the young lady who brought him in to keep him on a tighter leash.'

'I will,' Viktor huffed in relief. 

'Feel free to come and give him a cuddle.'

Viktor smiled, and stood. 

'Thank you.'

Macca was stretched out on the bench, large paws open and soft looking and nose letting out breathy plumes of air. 

Viktor knelt down next to him. 

'Naughty boy,' he whispered, 'Naughty, lovely boy.'

He tangled his fingers around the fur on top of his hair, and smiled as he nuzzled closer. 

'Thanks Yuri,' he said quietly to the empty sky.

***

Viktor waited until they were in the car to roundly scold Macca. He gave him a full blown, articulate lecture about what a reckless, impulsive being he was, and how he wasn't just hurting himself, but the people around him. 

Even to his own ears, he was Yakov down to a tee. 

Macca sheepishly rested his head on his paws, and promised with his big brown eyes never to do it again. 

Viktor sighed, and ruffled his fur. 

'You're lucky you're cute. I'm sure people say the same about me.'

They didn't go back to the inn, but Viktor called Mari from the airport car park to thank her for bringing him in.

She said it was no problem, with a smile in her voice. 

They rang off, and Viktor sat down in one of the chairs, and waited for Yuri to arrive.   
He hadn't checked the standings; he wanted Yuri to tell him himself. He knew he'd be able to see it painted on his face; if he'd made it or not. 

Viktor vowed to greet him with open arms whether he had or not, but felt a horrible dread when he realised just how stuck he'd be if he hadn't. 

The people who said he was playing coach, and that he wasn't up to scratch, and that all he could do was get back into the fold and slog for another season, perhaps two - they would all be right. Equally, in the back of his mind was the lingering thought that maybe Yuri wouldn't want him there anymore. He'd dropped Celestino when he didn't get him to the top, and maybe he'd do the same for him. 

Admittedly he hadn't grinded on and kissed Celestino, but he had been a real, grounding father figure. They had been close. 

They weren't now. 

Viktor buried his fingers into the fur on Macca's back and stared at the rain trickling down the double doors. 

***

They flew into each other's arms like a pair of parallel, unstoppable forces. Their torsos smashed together, and they wrapped their arms around each other like vines. Viktor buried his nose into Yuri's neck and breathed in his scent; soft, blossomy wash powder, more coffee than is likely healthy mixed with just a twinge of sweat. 

He smelt like home. 

Yuri pulled away with something like desperation, and looked up at Viktor with big, brown eyes.

'Please be my coach until I retire.'

The hustle and bustle of the airport blurred into a watercolour left out in the rain and white noise. Viktor took Yuri's hand and held it in his, fingers gently entangled.

He put it to his lips and planted a tender kiss on his fingertips.

'Almost sounds like a marriage proposal.'

Yuri's smile was like the sun, and could have illuminated the world.

Viktor could not have been more in love.

And he needed to feel their skin pressed together. 

'It's been too long, Yuri.'

'It's been a few hours-'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

Yuri reached up, and cupped the back of Viktor's neck gently. He pulled him down and whispered in his ear, 'Let's go home.'

Viktor sat about as close as he could get to Yuri without physically mounting him in the taxi back to the onsen, with Macca dozing at his feet. 

Yuri kissed him on the top of the head.

'Are we going to go to bed when we get back?'

'I'd like that a lot.'

'Are we going to sleep?'

'... I'd like that a bit less. But only if you're ready.'

Yuri gathered him closer, then grinned down into his collar bone. 

'I'm ready.'

***

They turned the lights off and undressed each other slowly, exploring each other's skin and letting their fingertips hover, then touch, then linger on soft skin. 

There was warmth radiating off their bodies and light in their eyes. Glow in the dark stars painted on the ceiling and pale walls.

They kissed gently and then there was skin on skin, lips on lips, teeth on teeth. And it felt like they were exchanging souls, letting the other completely and utterly enter them, fill up their veins and lungs and minds and hearts. 

The misfiring nerves in both of their brains that lead to sobbing in bathroom floors or collapsing onto the ice; confusion, too much or emptiness were all distracted, entangled in this beautiful being who they loved and who loved them back.

They couldn't love each other's illnesses away, that wasn't how it worked, but under the sheets, and under the stars, they felt secure and safe and in love. 

They wondered why it had taken that long, and then realised that it was because this was special. 

It was a lifetime of ice and panic attacks and severed ponytails in the making and it was wonderful.

They pressed together in the dark, the comfortable abyss wrapping around them and binding them together, and Viktor buried his face into Yuri's chest.

'Everything,' he breathed, warm and wet, 'You are everything.'

He felt a hand creep into his hair and curl around the back of his skull. Then, a shift and lips to his neck.

'Past, present and future,' the lips whispered and he shivered. 

'You promise?'

'I promise.'

***  
   
In Barcelona, they pushed their beds side by side and huddled together against the cold. Viktor awoke and rolled over, so that his nose was pressed into Yuri's hair.

He was warm and soft and alive, and Viktor wondered how exactly he'd gotten so lucky. 

And suddenly, it was so wonderful, and so daunting that he had to get away. So he slipped out of bed carefully, and found a freezing pool that he could slip under. 

Seeing Chris there was a pleasant surprise; he was wearing a beaming smile and looked happy and relaxed, and Viktor smiled right back.

They snapped languid photos of each other and posted them online, laughing and splashing around until Viktor only remembered he was in love, not that he was scared. 

Suddenly, Chris stopped, water dripping off his chin and grabbed Viktor by the shoulders. He pulled him closer and examined his face, then gasped.

'Sex radar!' 

Viktor giggled like a schoolgirl, then gently removed Chris' hands from his shoulders.

'Yes Chris. Sex radar.'

Chris laughed loudly, 'That's my boy!'

'It was... wow. Wow. Wow.'

'It was wow, was it?'

'Wow.'

The two of them leaped on a dazed and sleepy Yuri back in the hotel, warming themselves on him as he squealed. Viktor wriggled under his left arm and rested his head in the crook of his neck, smiling a sloppy smile. Chris sat up and wrapped the duvet around himself, smiling fondly down at them.

He congratulated Yuri with a cheeky wink and without giving context, and Viktor laughed loudly at his confused expression.

Yuri worked hard in practice the next morning, carving into the ice aggressively with grim determination. Yakov stood on the other side of the ice, focused on Yurio (who was growling at JJ rather more than he was skating) and gave Viktor a small nod of approval. He smiled back.

Viktor suggested Yuri get a good night's sleep once practice is over. It was mostly to give Yuri the best chance of an energised competition, but if he was being honest with himself, Viktor would admit that he'd come to enjoy nothing more than curling up under the sheets with the person he loved.

Yuri, however, seemed to think that Viktor was solely in coach mode, and shook his head, saying, 'Don't be a model coach now!'

Viktor pouted - he was a coach after all, and nobody could deny that he wasn't exactly doing a bad job - but his face moulded into a grin at Yuri's suggestion of sightseeing.

'I love the whole world,' he'd told Chris once, and he loved Yuri too. 

'Leave it to me!'

***

They were both rife with nervous energy, and barged around the city like bulls in China shops.

They ate far too much food, bought far too many useless shiny things, and kissed in front of nowhere near enough historic monuments, in Viktor's humble opinion. 

Viktor was weighed down by far too many shopping bags, and plopped them down on a bench while Yuri sat for a breather, so that he could twirl dramatically and make a vague comment about the strength of the Euro.

Yuri bought nothing, and seemed to be twitching with nervous energy. Viktor remembered being in competition, and recalled that the best way of quashing nerves was to be distracted, so returned to his post of dragging him through the streets to gather shiny things. 

Later, rife with manic exhaustion, Yuri had a minor breakdown when he lost a bag of nuts. Viktor followed him with his eyes, waving his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. He suggested they both go back to the hotel - they were both tired and beginning to head towards a low.

But they ended up walking together through silent, dark streets that were lit up by strings of dim, flickering lights. The cool air wrapped around them, and Viktor licked his lips against the icy breeze.

Yuri broke the silence by asking him what he wanted for his birthday and without thinking, Viktor replied that they didn't celebrate the event before the day in Russia. Yuri seemed to deflate, and Viktor frowned. He figures that he'd probably lost something in translation. 

He was still muddling through.

He could do it.

He offered Yuri some hot wine and was declined, but his eyes began to sparkle. He was alight with stars and looking for an answer.

It was half romanticism and half the hot wine that made Viktor think, "you're the answer."

They carried on walking. 

***

There was a goddamn choir, and Viktor was dreaming.

He must have been. 

In a moment, he'd wake up and be twenty-five and face down on the ice, or seventeen with his head in the sink, or nine and waiting in the cold for his father. 

They were against the backdrop of a towering cathedral, with lights shining out of the windows like beacons. They were alone and detached from the world; untouchable. 

Yuri removed Viktor's glove, slipping it gently down the pale expanse of his wrist like he was something to be treasured. His breath caught in his throat at the coolness of that reverent touch. Yuri's cheeks burned as he took his hand, and oh-so delicately, oh-so lovingly slipped a shining gold ring onto his finger. His hand lingered as he spoke, tucking his chin shyly into his scarf. 

'I want to thank you for everything up to now. I... I couldn't think of anything better. But, um... I'll try my best from tomorrow on. So... Tell me something for good luck.'

Viktor looked down at Yuri, this surprising, impulsive being full of every positive emotion on the spectrum. The trembling beauty, with tinted red cheeks, eyes shining behind thick glasses. 

'I'll tell you something you won't even have to think about.'

He took his hand, and slipped on the other ring, just as gently he hoped, and said, 'Tomorrow, show me the skating you can honestly say you liked the best.'

They wrapped around each other and slipped through the streets, illuminated by paper lanterns and warm from the unspoken weight of what had just happened. 

***

They were both still numb, with reality a stone's throw away when they huddled in the restaurant with the other skaters, and a shrieking Minako and Mari. Viktor kept letting his gaze drift to his hand and smiling, and Yuri found himself periodically gazing into the distance like a lovesick puppy. 

Conversation was easy, and they both relaxed into the friendly (if odd) environment. Somehow, conversation shifted to the previous season, and Yuri said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever come out with. 

'I couldn't even talk to Viktor!'

Viktor spat out his drink, Chris choked on his shrimp, and Phichit rolled his eyes and let his head smack down onto the table. 

'Yuri, you don't remember?' Viktor said, brimming with bitterness and memories of curling up with Macca on the floor on arrival at Japan. 

'What?'

Chris, ever the trooper rested his chin on his hand and winked at Viktor, who flashed his eyes minutely. 

'Yuri, you got drunk on champagne and started dancing. Everyone saw it.'

He failed to mention that he injected life into a living legend on the midst of a fairly impressive depressive episode, but Yuri seemed to understand the gravity.

'Huh?' his jaw dropped and eyes widened. Whatever bitterness Viktor had soon evaporated. 

'That was disgusting as hell,' Yurio grumbled, 'I got dragged into a dance battle and got humiliated too.'

That was absolutely not how Viktor remembered it; Yurio had seemed to have been having the time of his life, but there were bigger matters at hand.

'A dance off? With Yurio?'

'I did mine with a pole-dance, half naked,' Chris said casually. Viktor bit back a laugh. 

Yuri made a distressed noise and tucked himself under the table. Viktor drummed his fingers along his back, as he pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing, and tried as hard as he could not to meet Chris' gaze. Yuri was muttering to himself in rapid Japanese that Viktor didn't even try to pick up. 

He emerged after a while and Viktor whipped put his phone, brandishing it proudly. 

'I still have videos of what happened.'

'I do, too.'

Viktor and Chris were pounced on by the members of the table who hadn't been privy to that... Momentous occasion, until Chris gasped and dropped his phone. 

'What's with the rings you guys?'

Chris caught Viktor's eye and tried to communicate through eyebrows alone, wiggling and raising erratically. Somehow, he couldn't quite articulate what he wanted to say, so said to the whole group, 'They're a pair!'

Which somehow led to Phichit congratulating them on their marriage, and raucous applause from strangers. 

Oh, how Viktor wished. 

Yuri flapped his hands erratically, and heartily denied Phichit's claims. Chris stayed still, with his hand still rested on his chin, but mouthed two words to Viktor across the room. 

'Opportunistic bastard.'

Then he winked. 

Viktor's eyes sparkled. 

'Yeah, don't get the wrong idea. This is an engagement ring. We'll get married once he wins a gold medal. Right, Yuri.'

Yuri's face was picture perfect. 

'V... Viktor!'

At mention of the gold, everyone gritted their teeth. They were athletes after all. After Chris had staked his claim though, he nodded his approval at Viktor, who pursed his lips against a growing grin. 

JJ showed up after that and the mood soured. He was harmless, but a bit... Too much. He had Isabella tucked under his arm and was parading her like a trophy, and it had been a long day, and everyone was tired. 

So they left. 

Yuri seemed pretty dazed when they got back to the hotel, and he locked himself in the bathroom as Viktor watched in confusion. A jumpy head poked out a second later, saying, 'Showering!'

Viktor slid down the locked door, and sat with his legs crossed. He listened to the trickle of the water, and then as it evolved into a burst. 

And all at once second guessed himself. 

He buried his head in his hands. 

He'd made another mess. 

When he heard the water switch off, he snapped his head back. 

'Yuri... I'm sorry.'

There was a shuffle, then, 'Why on earth are you sorry?'

He didn't reply. 

There was a click then the door swung open. Viktor didn't move, and Yuri knelt down behind him. He wrapped his arms around Viktor and kissed him on the top of his spine, encasing him in the warmth of his dressing gown. 

'Viktor?' he pulled him closer then whispered, 'Why are you sorry?'

Viktor sighed, and tipped his head back against Yuri's chest.

'I'm too much. Way... Way too much.'

He swallowed heavily. 

Yuri stood, and tiptoed around Viktor, to mimic his cross legged position. He cupped his cheeks with his hands.

'You're just right. How many times? I want very bit of you.'

'Even when I do... That?'

'Especially when you do that. You said everything I was too afraid to.'

'...it was a little bit Chris.'

Yuri laughed.

'But a lot you.'

'Yeah. Loads.'

He smiled weakly, and Yuri smiled back. 

'God... God,' Viktor mumbled, 'Go to bed. You've got the big day to end all big days tomorrow.'

'Come with me.'

They wrapped around each other on their pushed together beds, both wearing sleep masks with the blackout blinds pulled firmly down.

'Every bit of you,' Yuri mumbled into the darkness. 

Viktor nodded into the crook of his neck. 

He so nearly believed it. 

***

He texted Chris at three in the morning.

//"It's like... Your fault I'm engaged."//

//"Was that meant to sound like a bad thing??"//

//"I wanted to do it with like... Doves and roses and nudity."//

//"Of course you did.//

//"Thanks and stuff."//

//"You're welcome and stuff."//

***

Watching Yuri take to the ice with his ring glinting under the lights was everything Viktor had ever wanted. 

He was his usual grace and beauty, elegance and sublime effortlessness but something else too this time.

Confident. 

He'd stopped doubted himself, and started being unafraid to push the limits. He had a fire, previously dimmed by a veil of anxiety, and had the drive to change things up on his own terms.

The much anticipated quad flip was clean, but landed with one hand on the ice. Viktor, high on far too much sugar and far too many emotions from the day before jumped it with him in solidarity, coat twirling around him like a cape. 

Yuri collapsed to the ice afterwards, hands fisted and trembling. Viktor let his eyes slide shut as the scores were delivered - high, but disappointing by the standard he'd become used to.

He knew what disappointment was like, he knew what the weight of expectations were like. He didn't want Yuri to find out. 

Viktor slipped away while Yuri was being interviewed to watch Yurio's performance. He'd grown, God had he grown. He was skating with passion and emotion, everything he'd been struggling to muster, but keeping his technical precision. Dressed in his costume, Viktor could almost see himself; who he could have been had his family not collapsed and his brain rebelled. 

And then, he broke his world record and Viktor's reality shifted to the left. 

He wasn't on top anymore. 

He didn't have as far to fall. 

He wasn't sure what to think.

But he certainly wasn't sad. 

Yuri seemed to think he would be and led him away gently as Chris took to the ice. 

It was still fun to see Chris skate, but he'd changed. He wasn't skating with raw, empty sex appeal anymore. It was something deeper. 

Viktor smirked.

It was his 'mystery man.'

'That was pretty erotic.'

Yuri gave him a funny look.

Viktor watched Yuri as JJ skated, an uncharacteristically tense and messy performance. There was something like empathy in his eye, and given Yuri's struggle with himself, and the weight of competition, Viktor felt something shift in his chest. 

He'd never paid JJ much attention before, but made a mental note to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

Despite Yuri coming in only fourth in the final standings, Viktor went back to the hotel in high spirits. He was oddly elated at having had his world record broken, and was rather glad that Yuri had wriggle-room to get to the top; he knew that it felt a little like balancing to stay on top once you got there. 

He showered when he got back, and Yuri shouted through the door that he needed to talk to him about something. 

It didn't cross his mind to be worried.

***

'After the final, let's end this.'

***

And just like that, it was shattered. 

Everything he'd built, every smile, every grin, every kind word, every kiss, every breath, every hug, every inch of skin on skin, every stabilising hand on his shoulder, every feather light touch, every feeling of finally being a human being rather than an abstract concept of fragile and superficial greatness. 

At his feet in tatters. 

It was lies, all lies, he didn't want him, not all of him and not even just a bit of him. He'd been presumptuous about the rings, over-zealous with the kiss on the ice and far, far too much with every confession and every bold claim. 

He was raw and vulnerable, sitting on the windowsill in his dressing gown gazing into the hard eyes of the man who was his world, and who he wasn't the world of. 

Words firing in his brain too rapidly to comprehend, all he could do was huff out a 'huh?'

And then, even with the rings that were surely empty glinting in the low light and Viktor reduced to a drowning mess of the parts of a person rather than the whole thing, Yuri managed one more dagger to the heart. 

He thanked him for being his coach.

Because that was all he was. 

All he'd ever be. An object of records and medals, ready to pass on his wonder to the next unsuspecting sod. He'd been sure, so sure that he'd be the one to protect Yuri from what was essentially himself; the greatness, the unhealthy highs that led to deadly lows, the burn-out. Now he couldn't even do that. 

And then, the tears, hot and slow and holding the world. It felt like he was crying out his reality, watching everything he'd come to associate with security and safety and home drip onto the carpet and soak through onto the floorboards. He was hurt, so so hurt, like a wounded animal. 

'Damn,' cold, icy, sharp, 'I didn't expect Katsuki Yuri to be such a selfish human being.'

'Right. I made this selfish decision on my own. I'm retiring.'

No.

Simply.

No. 

He wouldn't accept it. 

Still silent, he cried harder. A hand reached up, but not a comforting one. A flat one, fingers tensed to brush his hair away from his eye. 

'Yuri... What are you doing?'

'Oh... I'm just surprised to see you cry.'

'I'm mad, okay!'

He batted the hand away, surprised at how his feelings had translated. Hot anger was unfamiliar. He was used to blurred darkness, manic neon colours and white numbness, but red hot anger? Only once or twice. When his father cut his hair, and when his father wouldn't apologise. 

When his choices had been questioned. 

When other's had made choices for him, and been wrong. 

So wrong. 

'You're the one who said it was only until the Grand Prix Final.'

'I thought you needed my help more.'

(I thought you needed me as much as I need you.)

'Aren't you going to make a comeback? You don't have to worry about me-'

'How can you tell me to return to the ice while saying you're retiring?'

(It's only with you that the ice is beautiful. Otherwise, it's big and scary and I have no doubt that it would consume me.)

He took Yuri by the shoulder, tears in his eyes, then sighed, dropping his hand. 

'I'm sorry. That I wasn't enough. That I was too much. That I was... Whatever I was. Whatever I am. I'm still working that out, and I thought you were helping me. I was so close. Sorry again.'

Still in his dressing gown and barefoot, he took his phone and slumped out of the door, shutting it gently behind him. 

He texted Chris in the hall. 

***

'I should have just resigned myself to life with the dog shouldn't I?'

'Viktor.'

He sighed, and let his head flop down onto Chris' shoulder.

'Why do I fuck everything up?'

Chris rested his chin on top of his head. 

'You don't. Don't be silly.'

'Please don't say that.'

'...sorry.'

Chris' hotel room was bare, as his rooms always were, with only an open suitcase pushed into the corner and a pair or trainers abandoned beside the door. They'd dragged the duvet off the bed onto the sofa, and were curled up on the leather, bare feet folded side by side on the coffee table. 

'What do I do, Chris?' a whisper, like a soft breeze on a summer's day. Scared of ruining the warmth. Sure it shouldn't be there. 

'It sounds to me,' just as quiet, but stronger, 'Like he was talking about skating. Ending skating. Not... you.'

Viktor groaned.

'But Chris... he's a skater. And I'm his skating coach.'

'You're also his fiancé.'

'He wants to quit so that I'll go back. I can't do that, not without him there.'

'Viktor-'

'It would kill me Chris.'

Silence. 

'He can't leave. The ice or me. He can't. Please, God.'

'Tell him. Tell him that.'

'I can't.'

'Viktor... he's built you up so high over the years that he thinks you can handle it. Thinks everything the cameras picked up was real. He may see you as flesh and blood now, which is wonderful, but he still thinks you're the poster boy... smiling your days away without a care. Tell him that you weren't... that you couldn't... that you can't. Then at least he'll know.'

'He fell in love with a poster, Chris.'

'And stayed in love with a human being.'

***

//"Viktor I'm sorry."//

//"I didn't mean I didn't want you. I just didn't want to take you away from the world."//

//"Please come back."//

//"It's really cold, you'll get ill."//

//"I'm so sorry."//

//"Come back."//

//"I love you."//

//"I love you."//

//"I love you."//

***

Yuri was still sitting up on the bed, glowing phone clutched in his hand when Viktor returned a few hours later. His eyes lit up when he saw him, both with tears and hope, and he dropped the phone onto floor, and didn't react when it bounced under the bed.

Viktor sighed, and ran his hand through his hair.

Yuri's eyes sobered.

'Go to sleep, Yuri. Competition tomorrow.'

'I-'

'We'll talk after the free skate.'

Yuri looked at him for a long moment, cogs turning in his head as he tried to weigh up the gravity of what had happened... What he had done. 

Hooded eyes. Tear marks. Heaviness. Resignation. 

Shit. 

Viktor was still standing there, like a looming phantom, watching Yuri from the foot of the bed. He followed blankly with his eyes as he shuffled under the covers with a curt, guilty nod.

He joined him after a few minutes, stiff and rigid on his side of the bed, and didn't shuffle into Yuri's arms the way he had become accustomed to. He stared at the door, at his abandoned dressing gown, at the shoes by the door, at the buzzing lamp. He could have been at any competition, at any age, cold and alone under the weight of stares and anticipation and endless, endless scrutiny. 

Then the mattress shifted behind him, as Yuri rolled onto his side. His chest felt heavy all of a sudden, as though it had been filled up.

'Do you still want to marry me?' he whispered, in a small and strangled voice that didn't belong to him.

'I... Yes of course I do. Oh, love. Of course I do. I-'

'It was just about skating?'

'Just skating.'

'I... Good.'

A hand ghosted up his back, millimetres from his skin, then pressed down between his shoulder blades and rubbed up and down. Warm and strong. A promise. He reached back with a sigh and took the hand, then shifted over to face Yuri. His eyes were big and sad, glazed over with tears that didn't fall. He wanted to reach up and touch his cheek, to stroke along his forehead, to kiss him soft then hard, and press against him under the sheets and explore his body. 

"After the final, let's end this."

It was still too raw. So he ran his thumb along the length of his hand once more, smiled a half smile of, "I'm not ready yet, but I'll be there soon," and flipped back over to face the door. 

A heavy sigh rang out through the room.

***

 They were both deflated the next morning, but had said some things that had needed to be said. After the whirlwind that was the proposal, in a roundabout, less than ideal way, it was good that they had had some confirmation that at least relationship-wise, they were both fully intending to be in it for the long haul. 

Skating was another matter, but Viktor had some things to say about that. 

After the free skate. 

After the free skate. 

They walked with heavier footsteps towards the ice, but once Yuri was standing there, in all his statuesque glory, ready to perform, Viktor was smiling. He took his hand. 

'Don't worry. You can win gold, Yuri. Believe in yourself.'

'Hey, Viktor... You said before that you want to stay true to yourself. Don't suddenly start trying to sound like a coach now.'

Viktor's eyes widened. It meant the world. 

It was an "it's not all you are to me."

Admittedly, the late night discussion of marriage should possibly have been an indicator, but Viktor was bad at reading symbols. He smiled wider, and felt lighter. 

'Yuri, listen to me. I debated whether I should tell you this now, but... I took a break after becoming the five-time world champion to coach you, so how is it possible that you still haven't won a single gold medal? How much longer are you going to stay in warm-up mode? I really want to kiss the gold medal.'

He wrapped his arms around him, and held him to his chest, listening to the heartbeat that had come to fuel his own, as Yuri let out breathy little noises and nodded against his neck. 

They closed their hands around each other once more, then he took to the ice. 

And he was beautiful, on a par with that messy, fateful night of the Sochi Banquet that had led to Viktor having something to hold onto for the first time. His body moulded with the music, he soared and flew, raced and then mellowed into moments of beautiful, beautiful stillness. Technically proficient, and artistic masterpiece, and above all, surprising. He was throwing quads in left right and centre, changing things up, pushing the limits and Viktor could have cried; nearly did cry. 

Something at the back of his mind whispered, "share the ice with that. You can do it," but he pushed it away, and watched with lovesick eyes as he raised his elegant fingers into the final pose.

The kiss and cry was rife with electricity, and there was greatness on the horizon. Viktor huddled close to Yuri, and spoke encouragingly. 

And then he broke the record. His world record, the one he'd set at seventeen just hours before everything went wrong, and the ball was set rolling. He was free, truly free to get back on top. It was a clean slate.

He. 

Could. 

Do it.

He tried to convey as much to Yuri by simply laughing when he asked if he was returning.

But Yuri seemed too busy staring down at his skates as though he couldn't quite believe what they'd created.

***

He ended up telling Yakov for definite before Yuri, grabbing him hastily minutes before Yurio's performance.

He was clearly preoccupied, and tried to make his escape quickly, but whirled around in surprise at Viktor's words. 

'What? You're coming back?'

His delight was poorly masked by a veil of sharpness and harsh syllables. But there was apprehension there too. Viktor carried on talking. 

'For now, I'll time my return to the Russian Nationals.'

He hugged a reluctant Yurio, who was oddly... Not as reluctant as usual (in that Viktor got away without injury) and grinned at Yakov over his shoulder.

He raised his eyebrows in what wasn't a smile, but certainly wasn't a frown either.

***

Yuri ended up presenting a silver medal to Viktor, holding it at arms length like it might bite, as Yurio held his gold up to the light proudly. 

Viktor smiled mischievously. 

'I don't feel like kissing it unless it's a gold medal.'

But the second they were back at the hotel, Viktor scooped Yuri into his arms, legs snaking around his torso. He spun him around for good measure, saying 'I'm proud, I'm proud, I'm so, so proud,' then dropped him onto the bed. Large, loving eyes stared up at him, and he melted, taking Yuri's hand in his and kissing the ring tenderly.

Yuri laughed breathily. 

'What was that for?'

'It's gold. Close enough.'

Then he grinned, wide and sincere, and dropped beside Yuri, taking his chin and directing their mouths together, then kissing tenderly, warmly and perfectly. 

Yuri's hand snaked under his shirt, and his breath hitched. He slipped his own behind Yuri's head. 

They didn't go to the banquet. 

***

'Why didn't you do that last year?' Viktor gasped, spent and covered only by an edge of bed sheet that had landed sympathetically. Yuri smiled, and rested his head on his fiancé's chest. 

'We wouldn't have been ready. I mean... I was also very drunk, but... Everything that happened, I think we needed.'

Viktor nodded minutely, and stared up at the ceiling. The last year played out over his vision.

'I think I know which Viktor I am now.'

'Yeah?'

He caressed up and down Yuri's bare back in the low light, as a smile ghosted on his lips. 

'I'm yours. I'm your Viktor.'

'No, you're not.'

The fingers stopped, and he tended, just a little, but Yuri reached up and threaded his fingers through Viktor's hair and made a small shushing sound.

'I mean, you are. Completely and utterly mine, but you're so much more. You're more than one thing, you don't have to put yourself into a box. You're Viktor the coach, Viktor the fiancé, Viktor the naked guy in the onsen, Viktor the figure skater. And that's only the stuff I know. There's so much I don't know. So much stuff from when I watched you and didn't know you. It took me a while to realise that, but I do now. It was wrong of me to assume that you were only made up of stuff from the last year, and photo-shoots before that. And I'm sorry, again.'

'There is stuff... From before you knew me. So much stuff.'

'Whatever you want to tell me, I'll listen.'

Viktor wrapped his arms around Yuri, and said into his hair, 'Let's talk about the future, and see how much past comes up.'

Yuri nodded gently, eyelashes fluttering against Viktor's neck. 

'Okay. You're coming back?'

'I can now. I've got room to climb. Once I was winning, and once I couldn't stop winning, it was like balancing on a pin. One wrong move, and I'd have disappointed everyone, lost my reputation, and become worthless,' Yuri opened his mouth, but Viktor carried on, 'I know, but that's what it felt like. I couldn't breathe. You - and I suppose Yurio, but definitely more you - have given me breathing space, and now I can get back to the top, rather than having to stay there. You beat me, and I can't thank you enough.'

'My pleasure,' Yuri replied but his voice was small. 

'Yuri?'

'I'm sorry you were hurting. I'm sorry it wasn't fun anymore.'

Viktor sighed. 

'Everyone hurts sometimes, Yuri.'

'But you hurt more.'

'...maybe. I've never lived in someone else's life. I don't know. I had more than a lot of people have, I had a network of support, I had a job. Everything just... Went grey for a while. But you made it colour. That's why I was so scared when you said you were retiring. It would have gone grey again.'

'I'm not that special, Viktor.'

Viktor huffed.

'You're that special and a bucketload more. You have... No idea.'

Yuri didn't reply. 

'And I'm going to try my... Absolute hardest to make you see it and believe it.'

He kissed the top of his head. 

Through the open blinds, a crack of sunlight emerged. 

Viktor smiled. 

'Officially a new day. What's coming?'

'We've done the past. We've done the present.'

Yuri sat up, and took Viktor's hands, pulling him up to meet him. He closed his plans around his cheeks, and kissed gently, then spoke into his lips. 

Darling, I'd say it's time for the future.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if anyone wants it, it really is! I have an outline for a continuation, and may post it if anyone expresses an interest. Thank you for reading my little self indulgent Viktor-fest... I hope it was an enjoyable experience! Comments would be much appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that was a fun ride! As you may have picked up by the title, the next section will be Viktor post-Yuri, and will I suppose be for the most part a companion fic to the series, but a lot more Viktor centric and rife with internal monologue!


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